


and flower, you're the chosen one

by kevystel



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Anxiety, Consensual Underage Sex, Depression, M/M, Multi, Texting, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-07-19 20:24:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 67,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7376131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kevystel/pseuds/kevystel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur sees at once that Beilschmidt is in an awful mood. He’s sitting at the back of the room with his feet on the table and when Arthur comes in his expression goes from “capable of murder, but fairly good-natured” to “will raze cities to the ground if provoked”. </p><p>Arthur can’t remember doing anything to offend Beilschmidt — whose tolerance is unusually high, anyway — but Arthur has a history of well-timed rudeness, and Beilschmidt has a history of giving as good as he gets.</p><p>(Translated into Chinese <a href="http://jacktherabbit.lofter.com">here</a>!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hello again, friend of a friend

**Author's Note:**

> hey hey hey it's the pruk high school au nobody asked for! warning for depictions of anxiety throughout, and please check the tags (they're 17, which is legal in my country, but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ just to be safe).
> 
> this used to be called the most pretentious thing and was posted to the pit like 184637246 years ago. i pulled it out of my ass this year and rewrote it completely. new title is from [left hand free by alt-j](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NRWUoDpo2fo) (also texting is kind of a big part of this fic so if that annoys you i'm sorry)
> 
> warning: there's fwb england/spain and minor unrequited spain→romano in this, hope that doesn't bother you too much lmao the real background relationship here is the france&prussia&spain fuckboy dream team lbr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [black sheep by metric](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=USfoTGFGARE)

Once they’re on the roof Francis coolly produces a cigarette and lights up, as if Francis isn’t student council vice-president. He smiles a little at that. Francis catches him looking, of course, and rewards him with a delicately raised eyebrow.

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Can’t remember. Hid in the bathroom for a while, but I’m pretty sure someone was getting a blowjob in the cubicle next door so I got the fuck out.’

He likes the roof much better anyway. There’s a beautiful view from up here, if you’re into that kind of shit. Pale brick buildings small enough to step on and the neat squares of gardens cleanly, brilliantly green, the main campus discoloured with age; the new science block’s smooth expanse of glass sweating in the damp chill, and trees stretching away into the distance. He’s a city boy at heart and he can’t get used to all the _space_ they have here. Seems like a waste. He thinks of the deathly stillness of the hallways before classes are let out for the afternoon — his face in the grimy bathroom mirror, its high cheekbones and hard eyes. It isn’t a pretty sight.

Francis, on the other hand, is rich and warm with amusement. Blue-eyed and fine-limbed, smoking lazily, he’s a splash of colour against the dull sky. His long legs are stretched out in front of him and his hair gleams like old metal.

‘I am sure people have had sex on this roof before.’

‘Probably not. Too cold.’

‘I brought you Antonio’s jacket. It’s been in my room for weeks.’

He takes Antonio’s football jacket from Francis. It’s heavy and unwashed, smelling of dark dyed wool and the ammonia of the science labs. The school crest is embroidered on the front. Antonio is broader across the shoulders than Gilbert, so the jacket doesn’t fit him well, but none of them care. They share clothes so often that they can’t keep track of who owns what any more. Even Francis, who’s particular about what he wears, stole Gilbert’s favourite hoodie for a month straight till Gilbert made him put it in the laundry.

‘Antonio?’

Francis shrugs. He’s sitting with his back against the water tank, smoke clinging to his mouth and that long aristocratic nose. Francis’ tie is beautifully knotted and his hair cropped short for school, which Francis never stops complaining about. It doesn’t seem to have put off anyone. ‘I call him once and get eleven texts in five minutes. Why does Antonio _do_ that?’

‘Why does Antonio do anything?’

‘Who knows?’

‘Where is he anyway?’ Gilbert is in the year below them. Antonio and Francis were already friends when their school got a new physics teacher from Munich and his younger brother with him, and somebody thought making Francis Bonnefoy and Gilbert Beilschmidt roommates would be a good idea. It lasted three weeks. ‘He wants to know how I get up on the roof. It’s easy. I’ll show him.’

‘He missed his chemistry practical and has to attend a makeup session. Which lessons did you miss?’

‘I don’t know.’

Francis looks at him sidelong in a way that makes Gilbert’s head hurt. ‘Check your timetable, then. You’ll have to catch up.’

‘I don’t bring my timetable to school. It’s not like I go for half my classes anyway.’

‘Gilbert,’ Francis says, and Gilbert swallows the urge to snap at him. They’re not quarrelling today. Their quarrels go down in history books. He closes his eyes: _tell me what’s wrong with me. I can change, I can change_.

‘Look, everyone’s used to me by now. That’s why I only get detention instead of getting suspended or kicked out like I should be.’

‘No, Gilbert, you only get detention because your brother spends hours in the discipline master’s office trying to convince him to give you a second chance.’

Gilbert winces and sees Francis’ creamy eyelashes flicker in triumph.

‘Don’t —’

‘Also,’ says Francis, accent chipping his vowels into pointed things, ‘you can’t make Kiku Honda forge your signature on the attendance sheets forever.’

‘It was low of you to bring up Ludwig.’

‘Finals are in less than two months. Your brother must be running out of arguments, and you’re running out of second chances.’ Fine smoke trails upwards from Francis’ cigarette, obscuring his face for a moment. ‘Please don’t get expelled.’

‘Not everybody’s an overachiever like you.’

The corners of Francis’ mouth turn down in distaste. Being Francis takes energy and effort; he’s had years of practice to get that golden certainty in the curve of his smile. Francis was the dance club president last year and it shows — he carries himself like a politician’s son, graceful and slender and sure. His teachers are running out of synonyms for _passion_ and _flair_ in his senior testimonials. He knows how people look at him in the hallways, this motherfucker.

When they’re together, Francis unfolds into blood and muscle and heat.

Gilbert breathes in and out steadily. He already regrets saying that, and yet at the same time he doesn’t. Sometimes they irritate each other beyond belief and other times Gilbert wishes he were more like Francis: caring, cunning Francis, who looks at the world with critical eyes, who sees everything as a problem to be solved and lays the solution out for you plainly. Francis loves people like he loves good clothes, or good food; Francis feeds off other people’s envy and his own.

‘I’m sorry I did it again.’

Francis snorts. He balances the cigarette between two elegant fingers and shifts restlessly, leaning his head on the water tank. ‘No, you’re not. You’re sorry you got caught.’

‘Fuck me, you know me so well.’

‘When will you make an appointment with Dr Vargas?’

‘Francis, come _on_.’ He sees the stubborn little frown darken Francis’ face and sighs. ‘We’ve been over this. Feli is Ludwig’s friend or boyfriend or whatever. I can’t keep track of them any more. You’ve got to have boundaries, you know?’

‘You realise he can’t tell your brother anything you tell him, no?’

‘Yeah, well, I’d think the fact that I call him Feli says a thing or two. I can’t do it, okay? This guy cooks me dinner.’

‘You are so _dramatic_ ,’ Francis tells him, which is rich coming from Francis. ‘Stop making excuses. Seeing the school psychologist is no big deal. Let him do his job.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me —’

‘Did I say there was?’

‘Okay.’ Gilbert grits his teeth. ‘We’re not fighting, okay?’

‘No,’ Francis says after a pause. Francis is one of the most expressive people Gilbert knows, and in public — with his classmates, the student council, tutors — he’s alight with butterfly-smiles, the room ringing with his deep laughter. It’s fake as hell but Francis is talented enough to make it convincing. Around Gilbert, his face is serious and impassive. ‘We’re not.’

‘Good.’

‘You look terrible.’

Gilbert draws Antonio’s jacket closer around himself. He’s still shivering a little. It’s not supposed to be this cold so early in the year.

After a moment Francis takes another drag and exhales heavily.

‘What are you going to do in detention?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ He thinks maybe he’ll take a nap — that’s looking more attractive by the second. He’s tired, he’s always so tired, even though he never does anything with himself. He sleeps irregular hours just because he can. He’s far less busy than Francis, obviously, and even Antonio, although Antonio’s no longer football captain now that the seniors have stepped down from their clubs and sports teams. Gilbert’s not allowed to join any student societies until he scores C’s and above for all his subjects. ‘Maybe I’ll read a book. I used to… I used to read, like, four books a day when I was twelve, did I tell you? What a fucking nerd. Can’t do it any more but there’s no harm trying —’

‘You could do your homework —’

‘Don’t nag me, Jesus _Christ_ , you are one year older than me.’

Francis leans his head against the water tank. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, don’t. It’s fine.’

‘Antonio and I will wait for you. We can go out for dinner if you want.’

‘It’s okay. Don’t want to make you wait. You have like a billion things to do.’

‘I’m staying in school anyway. I have a student council meeting at four o’clock. Are you planning to go back to the dorm?’

‘Sure, why not.’ He spends the night at Matthew’s place sometimes, but he’s broken enough rules lately. He’s not in the mood to push it. He just wants to sleep forever. ‘Guess I should get around to studying.’

Francis breathes in quietly, blows a perfect smoke ring; Gilbert can _see_ him thinking. It’s unsettling.

‘If it’s economics or maths, I will help you. You’re better at those than you think you are.’

‘Why don’t you tell that to my econs tutor?’

‘You failed econs because you panicked and answered the last three questions entirely in German. That is irrelevant. Most people have failed something at least once by the time they get to fifth year. You put too much pressure on yourself.’

Francis was a science student, like Gilbert, for all of one term when he was a fifth-year. Then he changed his mind, switched to the arts stream on a whim, and promptly excelled. He’s never scored lower than a B on anything. He’s never _not_ been on the Dean’s list. He works harder than anyone else, this sharp-eyed Parisian scholarship boy. There are people like Francis and people like Arthur Kirkland, a day student who is top in English literature without even trying, and then there’s Gilbert.

The week before finals last year, Gilbert stole his brother’s wallet and hopped on a midnight bus to the next city. It took Ludwig longer to talk him into coming back than it did to find him. They don’t talk about it.

‘What am I going to do when you graduate?’

Francis stubs out his cigarette, leans over the railing and casually drops it. Beneath them, somebody shouts. ‘Carry on living, I imagine. Today I thought you had gone and drowned yourself in the pool. I looked for you everywhere.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll give you fair warning before I kill myself.’

Francis smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘Please don’t.’

‘You’d miss me?’

‘Not exactly,’ says Francis, although there isn’t enough humour in his voice to be convincing. ‘Only the fuss, the newspaper headlines — your brother would return to Germany and I hear he’s a good teacher — it is all such a hassle.’

* * *

_SMS, 3:56pm_

**You:** Everything is fine, stop panicking!

 **You:** He is going for detention, I think he’s ok now

 **You:** At least he looked ok when he left

 **Antonio:** htat’s good that’s good!!!!

 **Antonio:** oh my god okay

 **Antonio:** I WASNT PANICKING

 **You:** HAHA you were

 **You:** Where are you btw?

 **Antonio:** waiting for arthur

 **Antonio:** this fucker is l8 to our d8 AGAIN

 **You:** Hahaha I’ll tell him to go find you if I see him

* * *

Arthur Kirkland is telling the world to go fuck itself. It has no intention of listening to him, but he’s doing it anyway.

Teeth gritted, he makes his way back to his desk with as much dignity as he can manage. Acid is hot in his mouth. He’s missed the last half-hour of his maths tutorial and it doesn’t matter because he can’t absorb a single fucking thing. Here’s another morning waking up wrong and classes that drag harshly against his teeth, another surprise quiz left blank, because he put down his pen after the first ten minutes and couldn’t find it in himself to pick it up again.

He puts one hand on the window ledge to steady himself.

‘Get out of my way,’ says Natalya Arlovskaya. Arlovskaya tells him to suck her dick about three times a week, which for Arlovskaya means that they’re on friendly terms. Since they are both in Elizabeta Héderváry’s band and have similar tastes in music, Arthur is only mildly sarcastic and Arlovskaya only accidentally intimidating. He’s never forgiven her for telling Alfred about the ghost they saw in the clock tower, leaving Arthur to field Alfred’s panicky phone calls. She’s never forgiven him for being sort of a twat. Obligingly, Arthur steps aside.

‘Tell me, since you listen in class: what is that graph on the board, why is it sloping downwards?’

‘It’s my sense of self-worth over time.’ He shrugs on Alfred’s abandoned jacket.

‘Very funny. You missed the new assignment Miss Chernenko gave out.’

There’s a copy of the question paper on his desk. Arthur picks it up. ‘Pair work _again_?’

Arlovskaya shrugs. Her tie is knotted with vicious apathy and a water bottle full of vodka sits calmly on her desk, since Arlovskaya is the most punk rock person in their year. Arthur listens to honest-to-god seventies British punk rock bands, and he can hardly compete. The skirt of her uniform rides up dangerously. Arthur would like to say he doesn’t look because he’s a gentleman, but it’s mostly because he’s not interested.

‘Gilbert skipped class again so he doesn’t have a partner either. Just pair up with him,’ Héderváry says from her desk two rows behind them. She zips up her bag and loops an arm through Arlovskaya’s. Around them, the classroom glistens with chatter as people pack up and ask questions and leave; it’s far too bright, far too much noise, and it makes his ears ring. Arthur doesn’t have a partner because he has no friends — all right, because he walked out of class to have a panic attack as unobtrusively as possible, but mainly because he has no friends. ‘Coming for debate training?’

Debate goes like this: he opens his mouth. Words come out. Most of the time, those words make sense. Now is not one of those times.

Arlovskaya snaps her fingers. She has a high, rather sweet voice that doesn’t suit her personality at all. ‘My girlfriend is talking to you.’

‘ _Manners_ , Arlovskaya,’ says Arthur. He’s wasted too many precious minutes shivering and throwing up in the boys’ toilet. He’ll be damned if he starts that nonsense again. ‘Yes. Probably. If I don’t turn up, you’ll just have to go on without me, as difficult as that is.’

‘Why do we put up with him?’ asks Héderváry lightly.

‘Because the stick is so far up his ass that all the shit comes out of his mouth, and that is amusing,’ Arlovskaya says.

‘ _Thank_ you,’ says Arthur. He breathes: in, out, in. Rationally, there is nothing to worry about. He hasn’t slept through the night since last Sunday. His head hurts. He is debate vice-president and there is a competition next week and he’s going for training today if it kills him. He checks his phone uselessly, not seeing the screen. The happy couple is gone when he looks up. Everyone’s on their way down to the dining hall and the classroom is emptying rapidly. He should eat lunch but he can’t stand the thought of putting food in his stomach right now. He looks for Alfred, and Alfred’s nowhere to be seen.

 _Oh fucking hell_ , Arthur thinks, and moves.

The rest of his classmates scatter. Very early in life, Arthur discovered that his eyebrows give him an intense, striking air and promptly weaponised them. Teachers he’s never met know him by name. Dizzy with fatigue, he fights his way through the crowded hallway with burning lungs, his breath coming short — he will _not_ do this here, not where everyone can see him, he will not — and for the love of Christ, there are _people everywhere_. He has no memory of any of the classes he’s sat through today. He’s got less than an hour until debate starts and he is so sick of school, of his packed schedule, debate trainings and prefect meetings and school events and university talks and scholarship talks and preparation for student council and lunch with Francis, dinner with Alfred, movie nights with Alfred and Kiku, studying with Kiku and Alfred and Matthew until late in the evening, his throat chafed raw, and someone calls, ‘Kirkland!’ and — yes. He bolts. He’s not proud.

For some reason, Arthur makes it to the ground floor.

He can already taste the nicotine in his mouth when he pushes past the glass doors into blessed open air. The wind’s icy and he’s shaking; he slows to a walk, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his borrowed jacket. There are spots of bright colour on the tree-studded slope where other students are gathered in small groups, wearing heavy scarves and school-striped sweaters, tasting the new frost. Arthur is severely underdressed for this weather and he couldn’t care less. He cups his hands over his mouth and inhales like a drowning man. The cold air burns his nostrils and throat. It’s too early for temperatures to be dropping this low.

Nearby somebody is smoking.

Antonio says: ‘Oh, I thought you’d never come.’ He’s sitting on top of a ledge, tie undone. ‘I’ve been waiting for ages.’

Arthur is hit with another unexpected wave of nausea. He rests his forehead on the ledge: cool, uneven stone.

Antonio looks closely at him, mouth warm with smoke and good humour. ‘Are you hungover?’

‘Rather wish I was.’

Antonio’s pretending to contemplate something in the distance when Arthur heaves himself up onto the ledge, all undignified. Leaves crunch wine-dark under his shoes.

‘Sorry — got a light?’

Antonio has one, and holds it agreeably for Arthur’s cigarette. He kisses Arthur quickly because Antonio likes Arthur, or doesn’t. Arthur’s assessment of this changes daily. ‘Why don’t you try sleeping at night for a change? I hear it’s nice.’

Arthur inhales deeply and it sharpens everything into focus: Antonio’s velvet profile and the gaudy pride of school colours on his sleeve, and the clean wealthy look of dense trees and high arched windows. Their campus is so large that Arthur wants to swallow it all — cool-tiled courtyards, extravagant stretches of grass. Arthur is seventeen and he’s spent nearly five years in this school. He’s learned to hold his head high in a place full of his betters, mimicking airs and self-assurance he didn’t have until he did.

Antonio shifts so they’re shoulder to shoulder. Arthur can’t help it. He leans into the touch.

He notices Antonio’s hands are unsteady.

He doesn’t have the willpower for sympathy. ‘Bad day?’

‘Not so good.’

Antonio is older by a year and no wiser. He hardly checks his phone when it’s important, but now he’s thumbing idly through old texts. Arthur leans over to peer at the screen, then blows smoke in Antonio's face.

‘You must be joking. This again?’

‘ _I_ don’t comment on your taste in boys,’ Antonio tells him mildly.

‘Anyone could tell you Lovino Vargas isn’t into boys.’

Antonio’s eyes crinkle in curiosity and amusement. ‘Jealous?’

‘You depress me, that’s all.’

‘You can come over if you want. I don’t have anything to do today.’

‘Really now,’ says Arthur, taking another drag. His phone buzzes in his pocket.

‘Okay, yeah, I do.’ Antonio’s smile is a flash of teeth, bright in his pleasant face; Antonio has the sort of classical good looks that people glance at twice in the street. ‘But there’s plenty of time. Want to take off your prefect badge before a teacher sees us?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ It does, but Arthur’s not up to thinking about it at the moment. He curses very quietly at his phone. ‘I have to go soon, anyway.’

‘Okay.’ Cigarette dangling from his mouth, Antonio drops gracelessly to the ground and kicks at the gravel. ‘Debate?’

‘Not any more. I’m stuck with detention now.’

‘Fucking incredible,’ says Antonio. ‘Someone is a _prefect_. Someone said he was good at doing things and not getting caught, like smoking in the open air where anybody could see us. Who could that be, I wonder?’

‘I’m on duty, you arse. Alfred wants to switch with me.’

‘Oh, right!’

‘How do you say “prefect” and not make the connection?’

‘I know I’m not very bright,’ Antonio says, deceptively hurt. He leans on the ledge. His slouch and languid sunwashed limbs give no hint of his football strength and speed. His socks and underwear have tiny tomatoes printed on them. He’s the opposite of everything Arthur tries to be. ‘You’ll see Gilbert in detention! He got into trouble again, did you hear?’

‘Isn’t he always in trouble?’

‘No,’ says Antonio so flatly that Arthur cringes. He asks like it’s a genuine question: ‘Must you be such a cunt?’

Antonio’s foul mouth surprises everybody. He always says that compared to Spanish, English profanities just don’t cut it. Gilbert Beilschmidt, in contrast, swears properly and with grammar and purpose, his sentences well-structured and to the point, so that every _fuck_ and _Christ_ and _cocksucker_ is used efficiently and to its full capacity.

Francis doesn’t swear. His face alone can convey all sorts of emotions.

‘I didn’t mean it, if that helps.’

‘Oh, you did. It’s okay.’ Eyes honey-bright, Antonio stubs out his cigarette. People love Antonio; he’s harder to read than lofty, pretty Francis, and Antonio is all genuine blank innocence and a boy-emperor smile. Those who don’t know better think Antonio has nothing underneath that. ‘I’m going for my chem practical. See, you’re making me late.’

‘You’re usually late.’

‘It’s usually your fault.’

‘Sorry,’ Arthur says, not very repentantly at all. ‘Shall I kiss it better?’

Antonio laughs. ‘Are you coming or not? I’m going for dinner with Francis and Gilbert but I’ll be back before curfew, and that guy’s not around so you can stay the night.’

Antonio has a roommate, but Tim can’t stand Antonio and spends most of his time with his own brother and sister. Arthur sucks smoke through his teeth.

‘Not today —’

‘Okay,’ says Antonio too easily. ‘Okay.’

* * *

_WhatsApp, 3:46pm_

**Alfred:** do me a favor

 **Alfred:** swap detention duty w me i have soccer prac

 **You:** I have debate :)

 **Alfred:** don’t use paggro emoticons at me asshole

 **Alfred:** come on man u know u love me

 **You:** You’re the captain why can’t you postpone football practice

 **Alfred:** COMPS START TOMORROW

 **You:** Well detention starts in 15 min

 **Alfred:** D:

 **Alfred:** arthur i thought we were friends

 **Alfred:** :(

 **Alfred:** :’(

 **Alfred:** :((

 **You:** FINE

 **Alfred:** <3

 **You:** I hate you

 **Alfred:** me too dude

 **Alfred:** me too

* * *

_WhatsApp, 3:50pm_

**Elizabeta (Debate):** HAHAHA don’t worry about it

 **Elizabeta (Debate):** We have more than enough people to form teams for today

 **Elizabeta (Debate):** Just make sure you come for the rest of this week’s trainings!!!!!

 **You:** Yes sorry

 **You:** I’ll be there on Thursday I promise

 **Elizabeta (Debate):** Don’t make promises you shithead, you always break them

 **Elizabeta (Debate):** Btw are you ok?????

 **You:** Yes of course

 **Elizabeta (Debate):** K rest well :))

* * *

Arthur sees at once that Beilschmidt is in an awful mood. He’s sitting at the back of the room with his feet on the table and when Arthur comes in his expression goes from “capable of murder, but fairly good-natured” to “will raze cities to the ground if provoked”. Beilschmidt says nothing. There’s no one else in detention today.

Arthur drops his bag onto the bench and breathes. He can’t remember doing anything to offend Beilschmidt — whose tolerance is unusually high, anyway — but Arthur has a history of well-timed rudeness, and Beilschmidt has a history of giving as good as he gets.

In the mornings this serves as an art room for bored first-years. Terrible watercolours stare back at Arthur and a sad cloud of dust has settled on the clay-streaked shelves. He could break the silence, but Arthur opening his mouth usually does more harm than good. He fiddles with the thermostat instead.

When Arthur turns, Beilschmidt has his phone out and is pointedly absorbed in some game. Beilschmidt’s wearing a jacket Arthur recognises as Antonio’s and a thick book peeps from the opening of his bag. Arthur can’t make out the title. Beilschmidt has an odd face, a sepia photograph sort of face, the eyes deep-set and the cheekbones long and light as feathers. Feral and elegant, he blinks up at Arthur as Arthur crosses the room to reach his table.

‘Phone, please.’ They’re about the same height, Beilschmidt thin but wiry, features sharp. Next to his brother (who looks like a bodyguard instead of a physics teacher) Beilschmidt’s downright runty. ‘Feet down.’

Surprisingly, Beilschmidt obeys without protest.

Arthur sets down the phone next to his own and gets out his homework. There isn’t much sunlight, and the dust-heavy curtains stain it cloudy; he shivers. He can hear the occasional shout drifting upwards from the football field. Alfred harboured a sickeningly sweet hero-crush on Gilbert Beilschmidt — confident, streetwise, strong-willed — from the ages of fourteen to fifteen. Then Alfred grew up a little, became all of those things himself, and promptly realised Beilschmidt is also horrible. Beilschmidt finds this hilarious. Arthur finds Beilschmidt attractive, but he’s got shit taste in boys and everything else.

‘What did you do?’

‘Oh, the usual,’ says Beilschmidt amiably enough. ‘You know, Jones lets me keep my phone.’

‘Alfred is at football practice, so you’re stuck with me today. Sorry to disappoint.’ If Beilschmidt has somehow developed a strong dislike of Arthur in the past two days or so, Arthur can’t say he’d be surprised. They’ve shared one or two classes since third year, when Arthur’s glasses and Beilschmidt’s braces came off, and they have plenty of acquaintances in common. They talk often, but always in a group setting; they’ve texted a couple of times; so far their one-on-one conversations have been limited to _what chapters are we tested on?_ and _do I look like somebody who knows, Kirkland boy?_

‘I don’t mind. I like you better than Zwingli, anyway. He threatened to shoot me last week.’

‘You picked a fight with _Zwingli_?’

‘Shut it,’ Beilschmidt says, amused now. ‘I’m crazy, not stupid. Don’t worry. People tell me I’m great company.’ Try as he does, Arthur can’t recall any instances of Beilschmidt acting outright hostile without having been provoked. Admittedly, it doesn’t take much to set him off, but Gilbert Beilschmidt likes people. Those people do not always like Gilbert Beilschmidt, of which he is acutely aware. He’s got expressive features and is remarkably photogenic, if class pictures are any indication, but he’s doing a rather good poker face at present. ‘Could be worse!’

‘Could have been Braginsky.’

Beilschmidt makes a noise that might pass as laughter.

‘I’d like to see you put Braginsky in detention.’

‘Trust me,’ says Arthur wryly, ‘I’ve tried.’ He’s staring down a vicious equation and he wants to tear up the page. He’d rather not think about the quiz. ‘Why didn’t you just sneak out of school entirely? Why stick around to be caught?’

‘Obviously I thought of that. The gate’s locked before one o’clock and the fence is too high to climb.’

‘Have you ever tried?’

Beilschmidt shows his teeth. ‘Not yet.’

‘I didn’t know you were in class at all in the morning.’

‘I didn’t know I was even on your radar, Kirkland.’

‘Your reputation precedes you.’

Beilschmidt rewards him with a smile like barbed wire. Arthur’s pulse jumps in his throat before he can stop himself. He says by way of explanation, ‘I thought Zwingli booked you for being late.’

‘Oh! Yeah, I was. I stopped to pet a dog.’

Arthur opens his mouth and then closes it again.

‘I know,’ says Beilschmidt. ‘Why, you ask? Why the hell not? Shit, this dog was so cute you wouldn’t believe it, I swear. I took a bunch of pictures. If you give me back my phone I’ll let you see them. Or you can just look at them anyway, my passcode’s 2401.’

‘You missed a lot in maths lesson today. You’ll have to catch up before finals.’

Beilschmidt’s face hardens. A lot of people are wary of Beilschmidt; it’s not all that hard to feel intimidated by Beilschmidt. But Matthew thinks Beilschmidt hung the moon, which has to count for something. Arthur, for his part, isn’t afraid of much.

‘I know. Is that maths homework?’

Kirkland looks up from his foolscap pad. There’s a flash of metal where his ear studs catch the light, because no one breaks the uniform rules and gets away with it like Arthur Kirkland. ‘Yeah. Questions twenty-one through twenty-six.’

‘Shit, seriously?’ says Gilbert. ‘For tomorrow?’

‘I actually have no idea,’ Kirkland says, chewing absent-mindedly on the end of his pen. Kirkland hides his anxieties well, but he’s got a few nervous tics that Gilbert only notices because Gilbert is really fucking creepy. He’s not looking at Gilbert, but at the open booklet of maths practice questions in front of him. His downcast eyelashes cast faint golden shadows on the thin skin beneath his eyes. ‘You can get started on it now, if you feel like it. I might need your help along the way. Did you bring the booklet?’

‘Yeah, I think so. I’ll get it.’

He fishes the homework out of his bag and brings it with him to Kirkland’s table, because why not? Kirkland’s eyes are red-rimmed and unsettlingly green; he gives Gilbert an unreadable, considering look and wordlessly slides his calculator across the table.

Gilbert doesn’t say anything either. He can tell when someone’s having a shit day. He’s known Kirkland for years — through Antonio, yeah, but mostly through Francis, which is complicated since nobody understands Francis’ relationship with Arthur Kirkland. By now he knows more about Kirkland than he ever thought he’d want to. He knows Kirkland’s warped handwriting and unhappy mouth, voice a smoker’s rasp, gaze sharper than a spotlight. When Kirkland speaks, people sit up and listen, and then decide he is a real special kind of prick. They voted him next year’s student council president and Gilbert tries to pretend he doesn’t exist.

Kirkland opens the music library on his phone, then apparently thinks better of it and tucks his earphones away. Gilbert glances down and — of course Kirkland listens to Pink Floyd. Of course.

It’s a lot easier to get started on the work he should be doing when Gilbert isn’t in class. He’s good at maths, anyway. Somehow he manages to raise his game around Kirkland, who’s a force to be reckoned with, between the arrogant shipwreck tilt of Kirkland’s chin and his silk-silver accent running on like mercury. And he… he wants to impress Kirkland, okay, it’s not as embarrassing as it sounds (actually, it is). It’s not _looks_ , exactly. Kirkland is decent-looking in an angular, imperfect, touch-me-and-die kind of way. Gilbert’s tastes lean more towards the cute and soft; and he likes girls, mostly, more often than boys. Kirkland is imperious. It’s only Kirkland’s moods, his fearlessness, his biting tongue — his pink-eared awkwardness — his manner of carrying himself.

‘Have you done number twenty-three yet?’ says Kirkland after several minutes.

‘No. You stuck?’

Kirkland shows him the foolscap pad, soaked in Kirkland’s dark spidery scrawl. They both have shit handwriting. ‘I don’t know what to do from here.’

‘You started wrong.’

Kirkland looks taken aback by his speed, but doesn’t question it. He gives Gilbert way too much credit. ‘What am I supposed to do?’

Kirkland’s homework _looks_ right but isn’t. Gilbert grabs a pencil and sets about fixing it. He is uncomfortably aware of Kirkland leaning in to watch him and Kirkland’s dusty hair and ash-veined wrists, the warm washed-over scents of nicotine and Earl Grey and the wintry tang of shampoo. Kirkland’s wearing that stupid fake vintage bomber jacket (Alfred Jones is a hipster at heart), which is too big for him, and in the greying afternoon he looks a little younger than usual, a little defiant. Say what you like about the guy’s personality, Kirkland _is_ ruthlessly competent at everything he does and that gets respect — and now, wet-eyed, coughing a little from the smoking habit and the cold, his prefect badge askew, his bones worn thin with exhaustion, Kirkland still manages to be more intimidating than most people in this school.

‘Thank you,’ says Kirkland politely. Gilbert’s first impression of Arthur Kirkland was a dining hall shout of ‘WELL, I’M NOT STICKING MY FUCKING COCK IN IT, AM I?’ at the start of second year. Three years on, he’s still not sure what the context was.

‘There’s a new assignment for maths,’ Kirkland tells Gilbert, taking his homework back and scanning the page rapidly. ‘It’s pair work. Do you need a partner?’

‘Yeah, that’s the first I’ve heard of it. Who’s yours?’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘Thought you’d partner Kiku.’

‘What?’ says Kirkland. ‘I thought _you’d_ partner Kiku. I mean, I thought you’d want to.’

Kiku and Kirkland have a calm, comfortable kind of friendship. Sometimes they eat lunch with Antonio’s Dutch roommate (the drummer for Elizabeta’s band and the second tallest person in their school) and talk about tea, and gardening, and other interests that make Gilbert think he’ll never fully understand Kirkland after all. Matthew is another person whose presence tends to make Kirkland behave like a better person in general. But Kirkland forgets Matthew’s name occasionally, so that’s a moot point.

‘Kiku’s probably with Vargas.’ Kiku also gets along with Feliciano’s hyper-argumentative younger brother Lovino, which just proves that there are some things you shouldn’t even try to understand. ‘You want to pair up?’

‘All right,’ Kirkland says. When Gilbert doesn’t respond right away, Kirkland glances up at him questioningly — mouth crumpling a little sideways, thick gold lashes fanning out like shadows on water — and Gilbert wants to die. Gilbert is not sure whether his crush on the guy who’s been screwing around with Antonio since forever breaks about ten different honour codes. He has a pretty strong gut feeling about that, though.

‘Yeah. Yeah, sure.’ He’ll be fine. He’s not _pining_ , for fuck’s sake. ‘When’s it due?’

‘Two weeks.’ The tension melts away from Kirkland’s thin shoulders. He leans back in his chair and treats Gilbert to a toned-down version of the infamous Arthur Kirkland I’m-going-to-fuck-you-up smirk, which is probably meant to be friendly and just comes off as mildly terrifying. Gilbert is pretty sure Kirkland’s bloodstream is ninety percent caffeine at this point. ‘Let me know when you’re free.’

Gilbert hopes to god he’s not painfully obvious. Kirkland could very well have figured it out by now; god knows Gilbert’s been losing his shit over Kirkland for long enough. He thinks he’s safe, though. If Kirkland suspected anything he’d already have asked Francis about it, and Francis would never let Gilbert live it down. Gilbert doesn’t know exactly how dense Kirkland is about these things. If you can trust Antonio and Francis (you can’t), Kirkland is pretty dense.

It’s only two weeks. Even he can’t fuck that up.

‘I’m always free,’ Gilbert says.

* * *

_Skype chat, 1:23am_

**Matt:** ok but why can’t you just ASK HIM OUT

 **You:** bc hes FUCKING MY FRIEND

 **Matt:** I’M SO SORRY

 **Matt:** look if this makes you feel better, I’ve known Arthur for years and take it from me

 **Matt:** he’s not that attractive

 **You:** yeah i know

 **You:** im the one who listens to you bitching about him and your bro for 3h

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gilbert's passcode is fritz's birthday YOU KNOW IT WOULD BE


	2. my heart is gold and my hands are cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [low on self-esteem so you run on gasoline](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zRHNi3QfFlE)

_iMessage, 9:17pm_

**Francis:** You’ll be fine HAHA

 **Francis:** Gilbert’s very good at maths!!

 **You:** I know

 **You:** But I am not very good at Gilbert!!

 **Francis:** What

 **Francis:** Are you stupid???

 **Francis:** Do you really think so little of your own interpersonal skills????

 **Francis:** Did 70% of St Cat’s vote you SC pres for this?????

 **Francis:** _typing…_

 **You:** Well first of all, it wasn’t that much of a landslide

 **Francis:** I’m not done being dramatic

 **You:** Oh ok carry on

 **Francis:** Anyway my point is WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT

 **Francis:** This is not the Arthur I know!!!

 **Francis:** Where is your famous ego!!!!!

 **Francis:** Did you leave it on a bookshelf somewhere along with your fashion sense

 **You:** I can’t tell if you’re insulting me or complimenting me

 **Francis:** #toughlove

 **You:** See this is EXACTLY MY PROBLEM

 **Francis:** You have NO PROBLEM, you’re being irrationally insecure and I do not NEED TO LISTEN TO THIS BULLSHIT

 **Francis:** I’m very busy and I have better things to do, like think about how I am superior to you in literally every way

 **You:** Also you can’t quantify social competence in terms of election votes

 **You:** ^^That Is Not True, And Fuck Off

 **Francis:** Your comebacks get worse and worse every day  <3

 **Francis:** Can you stop arguing against your own best interests it’s very unlike you and I am disturbed

 **You:** Oh of course

 **You:** I’ll stop

 **You:** For your sake

 **Francis:** Obviously

 **You:** Obviously

 **Francis:** It’s a big assignment, no?

 **You:** 15% of the term grade

 **Francis:** Oh so not THAT big

 **You:** Yeah I can handle it honestly, it’s just work

 **You:** We shouldn’t split the work right

 **Francis:** Yes

 **Francis:** I mean don’t split

 **Francis:** He won’t be able to do it if you leave him alone

 **Francis:** He really does have trouble starting on things, it’s hard for him

 **Francis:** Don’t look down on him

 **You:** I’m not that much of a dick

 **You:** On a scale of 1 to 10 how stressed is he?

 **Francis:** Like 18????

 **Francis:** The kind of stress where you physically cannot do anything except lie in bed and want to die

 **You:** Ok I understand

 **Francis:** No you don’t, you’ve never been in that situation in your life

 **You:** Neither have you

 **You:** :)

 **Francis:** Ugh

 **Francis:** I hate your passive aggressive smiley faces

 **You:** I hate your face

 **Francis:** Mature as always Arthur :)

* * *

_WhatsApp, 10:48pm_

**Arthur:** Hello, when do you want to start on maths? Just checking

 **Arthur:** Because I’ll be a bit busy with debate over the next few weeks so the earlier the better

 **You:** shit sorry just saw this

 **You:** like i said im basically always free just let me know

 **You:** also heads up im rly bad at answering texts so

 **You:** can you just give me a phone call

 **Arthur:** _typing…_

 **You:** i have no bedtime

 **You:** i mean i know you sleep at like 10pm

 **Arthur:** I actually don’t

 **You:** but dont worry about calling too late

 **You:** in fact late at night is better for me

 **You:** its all up to you

 **Arthur:** Sure

 **Arthur:** I’m probably going to bed now though, good night

 **You:** night!

* * *

After six years in boarding school Francis is still trying to make his room look stylish — it may be messy but it is _artistically_ messy, you cretin. He’s curled up on the window ledge when Gilbert comes in, his knees hugged to his chest and his hair sunny gold in the deep curve of the window, being very condescending to someone over the phone. The wood floor is warm with their footprints.

‘Francis,’ Gilbert says.

Francis’ room smells sunlit and faintly sweet, with an unwashed afternoon scent of bread and rumpled sheets. There’s a half-full coffee mug dozing on the bedside table and a calendar tacked to the wall burns with Francis’ bold handwriting. Francis’ roommate went back to Norway a month ago, but somehow his cramped, overflowing seventh-floor dorm room doesn’t feel like it has only one occupant. As long as Gilbert can remember, they’ve all practically lived here, eating enough to feed a small town. Francis has no family photos.

Gilbert hands Francis his bus pass (lost for two days under Gilbert’s bed), and Francis takes it wordlessly. Without looking up he covers the phone with his palm and says, ‘Antonio’s taking a shower. He will be back in a minute.’

Gilbert flops onto Francis’ bed. Their dorm’s one of the oldest ones in St. Catherine’s and it has a shabby kind of dignity: moss-covered brick and creaking stairs, water spurting icy from the taps. Gilbert has had to suffer through four years of bad heating but you know what? As long as they don’t put him in that mothership 1960s horror across the quad, he’s pretty happy.

Except Francis — _Francis_ , who smokes with the windows shut and has magazines underfoot all the time — doesn’t care for it. He curses the bad food and crawls into Gilbert’s bed for warmth on miserable winter nights, drawing his own dark velvety blanket around himself. There’s a waxy, delicate potted plant on the desk which Antonio has almost killed three times and which Gilbert knocks over if he so much as breathes nearby. Francis refuses to move the goddamned thing because _it’s his aesthetic_. Every so often, Gilbert gets fed up with the identical black sweaters (those fuckers breed) and increasingly filthy pairs of skinny jeans (‘I can still wear that,’ Francis protests) draped everywhere and does Francis’ laundry for him. Antonio says Francis does it on purpose. He’s working up to conditioning Gilbert to clean his entire room regularly. Gilbert says Francis is disgusting and he should shower more often.

Gilbert’s lying on something. He fishes one of Francis’ pretentious French existentialist novels out from under the pillow, curses, and tosses it at Francis’ desk one-handed.

Francis, deeply unimpressed, says, ‘One moment, please,’ into the phone. ‘Is something the matter?’

‘Hmm? Nothing. You have so much shit lying around, it’s unbelievable. What are you doing this weekend?’

‘Who am I doing this weekend?’ says Francis without missing a beat. To the phone: ‘I’ll call you back,’ and he hangs up. ‘No one. The answer is no one. I’m suffering. I have a consultation with my philosophy tutor and then I will be at the library, studying. Will you come?’

‘Don’t know.’ Gilbert’s toying with one of the tacky frog-shaped paperweights Kirkland buys Francis whenever he’s in a mood. Francis loudly despises them but keeps a small collection in his bedside drawer, arranged by colour and size. Those two have been in a regifting war for as long as Gilbert’s known them. The first time he saw Francis and Kirkland together he said to Antonio, _are they always like this?_ and Antonio said _yes, yes they are_. ‘I want to, but I might not be able to get out of bed.’

‘I will drag you out by the hair if I have to.’

‘Thanks,’ says Gilbert. ‘I appreciate it.’

Francis gives Gilbert one of his sudden brilliant grins and stretches, massaging the back of his neck with a long sigh. He looks older out of uniform and now, idly sunning himself in the claustrophobic afternoon, there’s a softening around the corners of his mouth and his tired eyes. All that charisma just practised enough to look effortless — the deliberate exaggeration of his French-smooth consonants, which drives Gilbert crazy — falls away when Francis is alone with his closest friends. Now there’s just his smile and his barely concealed pride and the sunlight in his face.

‘What have you been doing these days?’

As if he doesn’t see Gilbert nearly every evening. Just when you think you’ve got a handle on Francis, he stuns you with one of these questions. He puts distance between himself and Gilbert with a word or two and makes Gilbert doubt everything about their relationship from beginning to end. Gilbert says, a little more coldly than usual, ‘Not enough, like always.’

Fuck it. Francis knows exactly what he’s doing.

‘I’m not… I mean, I’m turning in homework on time. That’s an improvement, right? But I have no idea what’s going on in class and I’m so far behind I can’t even try to catch up.’

Francis’ eyebrows rise. ‘Ask Elizabeta Héderváry to teach you chem. You two are close, no?’

‘Not really. She likes Feliks Łukasiewicz more.’

‘You have just said something stupid, so I am ignoring it,’ Francis tells him.

‘It’s okay. I’m a dick to Łukasiewicz anyway.’

‘Do you remember when we had lives outside of school?’ asks Francis pensively. He rests his cheek on his bent knees and gazes at Gilbert for a long moment. ‘I don’t, either.’

‘That’s what happens when you’re a foreign student. Got to hold on to that scholarship, you know?’

‘I would help you, but I study best when I am alone. I’m sorry.’

‘I know.’ Gilbert could set a clock by Francis’ straight A’s. Francis’ lips curve upwards naturally, so his serious faces invariably make him look smug as a cat; he can’t help it. ‘Sometimes I hate you a lot, you know?’

Francis smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘I would hate myself too if I were not so beautiful. Your point?’

‘Okay.’ Gilbert leans over — from the bed, he can just barely reach Francis, and after a second’s fumbling he clamps one palm clumsily down on Francis’ ankle. Francis looks down at it, his eyes clear and strangely uncertain, wiped clean of all that unconscious scorn. ‘I’m sorry I said that. It was shitty of me. Come here.’

Francis slides off the ledge and comes to sit on the bed beside Gilbert. He’s too pretty to live, this boy, his arms and legs only just lengthening out into pleasant, glossy adulthood. Kirkland is broader around the shoulders than Francis, a little stronger, a little stockier. Gilbert looks the oldest out of all of them with his harsh features and his height, and Antonio has the ass of a Greek god, but it’s Francis who can show up at three a.m. in a ratty old hoodie with his hair in a messy bun and still look fucking fantastic. That son of a bitch.

‘You ought to smile more,’ Francis says, his mouth a full, unhappy twist. ‘You have a… ‘ow you say? A resting bitch face.’

‘You knew exactly what to say, you shithead. You just like to go “how you say, how you say?” like you’re some lost tourist.’

‘Of course I do. It pisses Arthur off no end.’ Francis lies back and crosses his arms behind his head. ‘I only have to drop a few French words here and there or say “ah, _pardon, madame, je ne parle pas anglais_ ” and people fall over themselves to accommodate me. You should try it sometime.’

‘It works because you’re nice-looking.’

‘ _Non_ , _mon pote_ — don’t hit me, I hate you — it works because I’m white. Tell me honestly, how are you doing? The last few months have been difficult, ever since summer break ended.’

‘I’m fine. You know I’d rather do push-ups than talk about emotions. How are _you_ doing, huh?’

‘I’m staying on top of things. I have been applying to universities in Paris. I think —’ and only Francis can say this with such perfect complacency, ‘— I will get in, I have been doing well, after all.’

Francis never fails at anything. He gracefully retreats, and then he sniffs and picks himself up and looks around for something else. That’s a world view Gilbert can get behind. Francis doesn’t have any poker face, either. He just doesn’t see the need for one.

‘Don’t miss us too much when we go off to university.’

‘Who’ll I study with, then? I can’t get anything done by myself and… Antonio’s not here so I can say this. Antonio doesn’t do shit either, you know it’s true.’

Francis laughs. ‘You can say it to his face. He doesn’t care.’ Francis passes judgment like a young god and in his own worst moments Gilbert _does_ hate him: his creamy high cheekbones, his long lashes and long mouth, haughty as the sun. He’ll never tell Francis this in seriousness. He worries that Francis knows anyway. Gilbert watches the cogs turning in Francis’ head. ‘Toris Laurinaitis? The basketball player?’

‘Ha! We don’t like each other much.’

Francis sniffs. ‘That is his loss. _I_ think you are much cleverer than Laurinaitis.’

‘Fuck me, he’s a snob.’ Gilbert sits up in bed as Antonio comes into the room without knocking, towel around his neck and dark hair dripping all over Francis’ nice floor. ‘You don’t even know Laurinaitis and here you are with your judging face on. Antonio, tell him he’s a snob.’

‘You’re a snob,’ says Antonio cheerfully. He wedges himself onto the bed between them. ‘What’s up?’

Francis says, ‘They’ll hold you back a year if you don’t pass your finals.’

Gilbert bites the inside of his cheek. ‘Yeah, well, it’s not so bad. Maybe I’ll be classmates with Matthew.’

Francis makes a face to show exactly what he thinks of Gilbert’s chances.

‘There is more of the bright side. I do not think they will send you home yet, and they won’t take away your scholarship. Unless you fail a second time, of course.’

‘You’re always great at lifting the mood, Francis.’

‘Shh, shh.’ Antonio pats Gilbert’s head. ‘It’ll be okay.’

‘I don’t know many of your classmates,’ continues Francis relentlessly. ‘Suggestions for a study partner? Perhaps it will help. You stress yourself out when you are alone and get so upset.’

‘I’m not upset, I just —’

‘I think you’re missing the obvious, guys,’ Antonio says. ‘There’s our Arthur! He really likes you, you know. He likes you so much it’s embarrassing.’

‘Eh?’ says Francis.

‘ _Fuck my life_ ,’ says Gilbert.

‘Not in that way! At least, I think I’d know if he wanted to date you.’ This is partly true: Antonio has an unerring sixth sense for people wanting to fuck each other. It’s just that his sixth sense tends to be narrowed down to people who want to fuck _him_. Gilbert rolls onto his back and pulls the pillow over his face. ‘He just thinks you’re cool. He —’

‘Gilbert’s not cool,’ Francis pipes up just as Gilbert says, ‘That’s right, I’m the coolest.’ They exchange glances over Antonio’s head.

‘I’m already doing a maths assignment with him.’ Gilbert closes his eyes. He doesn’t have the energy to think about Kirkland right now. ‘I’m trying not to screw it up. I read up on all the chapters I missed last night.’

‘Last night?’ says Antonio. ‘That’s what you were doing? I thought you were up scaring yourself with shitty horror games again.’

‘They’re not shitty. _I_ was scared.’

‘Francis, buddy, I hate to break it to you, but you’re really easy to scare.’

‘ _No I’m not —_ ’

‘Both of you, shut it.’ They are fearsome and faithful in a way that makes him ache. ‘Anyway, I’m going to work really hard now to make up for being such a sorry excuse for a project partner. I don’t need Kirkland being pissed at me to add to the list of things I’ve fucked up this year.’

‘Wait, can we get back to how you covered this whole term’s maths syllabus in one night? You really don’t do things by halves, do you?’

‘He makes me so proud,’ Francis says.

‘Don’t be like Francis. He’s fucking crazy. See, he’s running on like three hours of sleep and he looks it.’

‘ _Excuse you_ , I look gorgeous as usual.’

When Gilbert came here, fourteen and stupid, he knew he had to be better than everyone else: faster, louder, fiercer. Ludwig was quiet and worried, upset that they couldn’t bring the dogs along, upset that they couldn’t bring Fritz, twenty-seven years old. Staying behind in Munich while Ludwig left was never an option. So Gilbert went straight into second year. So quickly that he thinks he’s still got whiplash. Strands of German and English strewn around his treacherous brain. He did badly.

‘You could not mess this up if you tried, Gilbert,’ Francis is saying.

‘Hush, don’t jinx it.’

Francis has never been unsure about anything in his life; self-doubt is a foreign thing to those purposeful hands. He rolls on breezily. ‘And Arthur’s more patient than you seem to think. Ask him to study with you afterwards. He won’t mind, I promise. I thought you were already friends.’

‘You guys think I’m friends with everyone. I’m really not.’

‘You’re fine. You really are,’ Antonio says. ‘Trust me. I have, like, three friends? And Laura barely counts. It’s not a big deal. By the time you get to senior year, you’re going to realise that nobody gives a fuck.’

Francis, who has a wide circle of acquaintances and a stunning ability to trust no one, merely nods his agreement. ‘Will you think about it? You don’t have to say yes.’

‘No, I probably will. It’s not like I can think of anything better.’

‘Resting bitch face,’ Francis murmurs, and Antonio, as if he and Francis have been reading each other’s minds, reaches out and gently pushes up the corners of Gilbert’s mouth with his thumbs.

‘We’ll come round once in a while,’ Antonio says, ‘and keep you guys company! Only not too often, because the last time we tried to get some serious studying done we, _pues_ , we weren’t so productive —’

‘You set a chair on fire.’

‘ _We_ , Gilbert. _We_ set a chair on fire. Let him make his point.’

‘I don’t know what my point was,’ says Antonio blankly.

* * *

Arthur finds Francis outside the auditorium with his classmates flocking around him. The lecture’s just finished and the open, dust-coloured hallway is bright with voices, high ceilings echoing the blue afternoon. And Francis is in the heart of a crowd Arthur braves, following the flutter of Francis’ laughter.

Francis isn’t tall but Arthur’d know him anywhere. He catches Arthur’s eye and goes, ‘Hmm,’ and detaches himself from the other seniors.

‘Did you get in a fight with a cat or is that meant to be stubble?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ says Francis dangerously. He’s struggling to balance the books in his arms, and with a murmur of assent he lets Arthur take his laptop. ‘I overslept this morning and forgot to shave. You know, yesterday I saw a rabbit in a pet store window that reminded me of you —’

‘I don’t like where this is going —’

‘I would have taken a picture for you, of course, but my phone died. You are both hairy and aggressive and feed on your own shit. Speaking of which, have you eaten?’

‘Someday I will end you,’ Arthur tells him with deathly calm. ‘How long’s your break?’

‘I have an hour. Lunch?’

They end up in the café instead. Francis, who consumes more coffee than water, buys drinks and sandwiches and returns carrying a tray, with the indolent loping tread of a mountain lion.

‘I am having the worst time with prom, you will not believe it.’ Francis has a habit of picking up in the middle of conversations Arthur doesn’t remember starting. He disappears from the corners of Arthur’s vision (days of unanswered texts, a Christmas postcard all the way from bloody Paris for Christ’s sake) and slides back as easily as butter, taking Arthur’s arm out of nowhere and going _these scones are dreadful, Arthur, there you are, I have been looking for you all week…_ ‘I read your essay, by the way, it is quite good. Only a few sentences I have highlighted, here and there… it is correct but odd, no native speaker writes like this.’

Arthur takes the paper cup Francis slides across the table. It’s not tea but something more along the lines of hot brown water. ‘Yes, I saw your email. I don’t see what’s wrong with those parts though. I Googled those phrases and they seem fine.’

‘I am from France.’

‘Sod off,’ replies Arthur affably.

Francis spreads his hands, a splendid martyr’s gesture. ‘If you had taken German or Spanish instead in first year, I wouldn’t have to put up with you.’

Arthur’s French improved exponentially after three months of peer tutoring just to spite Francis, which Francis insists was his intention all along. Arthur doesn’t think so. Fourteen-year-old Francis was singularly easy to hate. He waits patiently for Francis to finish his long-suffering sigh, and then asks, ‘What’s the matter with prom?’

‘I am a senior,’ Francis says. ‘I will be _attending_ prom, all the student councillors will be guests at prom, so why are we in charge of organising it? Nothing about this school makes any sense! I am very tired and I haven’t done my research paper and finals are coming and I cannot do everything, Arthur, I only pretend that I can —’

‘At least you’ve never fooled me —’

‘Don’t interrupt me, barbarian. The teachers keep rejecting our proposals, I swear they have to micromanage everything from the music to the _napkins_ , and all the vendors take forever to answer my emails! I want to kill everyone else on the prom committee… except Tino Väinämöinen, he knows what he is doing.’

Francis tells nobody these details except Arthur. This is a well-worn scene: Arthur watching him, chin propped in his palm, and Francis leaning back in his chair with one hand over his face. His hair falls artfully into his eyes. Francis, without fail, grows his hair out over the holidays; cuts it himself with a pair of scissors the weekend before school starts, blue eyes intent and focussed in the bathroom mirror.

‘And what’s your president doing?’

‘Yao has gone into town to buy his trousers, they are finally letting him wear the boys’ uniform.’ Wang Yao and Arthur despise each other, which is not the point. Francis says he can see why. They’re the same breed of creature. ‘I will be glad to hand everything over to you, Arthur, this is the only time I will ever say this.’

Arthur smirks. When he won the election Francis wrote him a snide note and showed up outside the lecture hall after classes to take him out for ice cream. Last year Arthur burned his congratulatory scones to a crisp and forced Francis to eat every crumb and Francis, who was an emotional seventeen-year-old, perhaps cried a little. He’s given Francis birthday cards that read only _SOMETIMES I TOLERATE YOU_. Considering that they aren’t friends, they put a lot of effort into expressing their unfriendly feelings for one another.

‘It’s a bit late to be getting proper uniform, isn’t it? You’re graduating soon.’

‘Thank god,’ says Francis with feeling. ‘I don’t know. But I am happy for Yao. He can give the skirt to Feliks Łukasiewicz.’

‘Is he going to cut his hair now?’

‘Perhaps he likes it long. How is Alfred?’

‘He’s doing well, as you know.’

‘You look as though you haven’t slept.’

‘Nothing new. I’ve got two big essays due at midnight.’

Sandwich halfway to his mouth, Francis lifts an eyebrow. ‘French?’

‘And history.’ Arthur’s approach to writing history essays is “patronise everyone and blame everything on the Americans”, which has worked well for him so far. He rubs his eyes, feeling the fatigue at the base of his skull. He can’t remember _not_ being strung-out and on edge. It’s a permanent part of his personality by this point. ‘And there’s debate tournament next week, and student council investiture, and Héderváry and I need to plan our holiday debate camp. Just the usual shite, you know.’

‘You will be _fine_ , Arthur,’ says Francis, who has never turned in homework late in his life. ‘I think you worry too much.’

‘You’re no better.’ As both Arthur and Gilbert Beilschmidt have pointed out multiple times, Francis is not in fact a bohemian university art student and doesn’t qualify for the lifestyle. Arthur gets roughly the same amount of food and sleep as Francis, which is to say: hardly enough. Unlike Francis, however, Arthur is a morning person (this surprises many), and Arthur doesn’t spend his weekday nights stress-smoking in the dorm carpark and reading bloody Rimbaud by the flashlight on his phone. ‘Are you going to finish that?’

Francis hands him the unwrapped sandwich with a look of relief. ‘Eat it. It’s terrible.’

‘If you don’t stop losing weight soon, I _will_ cook for you and you will regret all your decisions up to this point.’

‘Yes please,’ says Beilschmidt behind Arthur. Arthur jumps; Francis looks up, and his lips quirk in recognition. ‘Poison Francis, that motherfucker. Just do it. Do us all a favour.’

‘I’m very considerate. Have a seat.’

Beilschmidt slides into the seat beside Francis and offers Arthur one of his potato wedges. Arthur shakes his head, so Beilschmidt shrugs and then generously takes Francis’ sandwich off Arthur’s hands as well. Beilschmidt is eternally hungry and eats anything and yet he still seems to be all elbows and adrenaline.

‘What are we talking about?’

‘Failure and inadequacy,’ Francis says, taking a delicate sip of his iced coffee.

‘Ah! My life story. Kirkland, I could use your input. Spill some wisdom. What’s your motivation in life, huh? What gets you out of bed in the mornings?’

‘Spite.’

Beilschmidt whoops. ‘That’s my boy!’

‘Are you going down to support the football match next week?’ Francis asks.

‘Sure, why not?’ Beilschmidt looks the sort to send the uniform regulations back to hell where they belong, but he turns himself out like an army officer, tie crisp just beneath the knife-blades of his collarbones. It’s Antonio and Francis who wear their uniforms with languid ease, Francis’ sleeves rolled up to his elbows and Antonio’s badge cheerily askew. They make a fine pair in the corridors. Beilschmidt never seems self-conscious about the age gap between himself and his closest friends. Now he spreads himself out effortlessly, an alert predator with one foot propped on his knee. ‘Antonio wants to watch his juniors play and he’ll need company… wait, sorry, were you talking to me?’

‘Both of you.’

‘I’m busy next week,’ Arthur says, ‘but I can make time for Alfred’s sake.’

‘Why’re you asking, Francis?’

‘Matthew wanted to know if I’m going.’ Francis pronounces Matthew’s name the French way on purpose, just to annoy Arthur. ‘I should be free that afternoon. Only I haven’t decided whether to drop in on the dance rehearsal before their concert next Saturday.’

‘Don’t,’ Beilschmidt tells him bluntly. ‘You’ll stress your juniors out.’

Francis has the cheek to look surprised. ‘Is that true?’

‘As a senior, Francis,’ says Arthur, ‘you’re rather intimidating.’

Beilschmidt snorts. He’s picked up tiny gestures — a magnetic sideways pull of his mouth, a way of turning his head so the light falls _just so_ on almond-shaped cheekbones — which Arthur supposes is only to be expected when all your friends look like _that_. ‘You’re one to talk.’

‘Ah, well,’ Francis says. ‘The only one among us who does not accidentally scare first-years on a regular basis is Antonio.’

‘Oh my god, don’t underestimate Antonio, he’s the worst.’ Beilschmidt turns to Arthur with his angular grin. ‘Have you _heard_ him curse people out in Spanish?’

‘I’ve been on the receiving end,’ Arthur says drily. ‘So I called him Anthony for a week and he nearly cried.’

Francis looks shocked. Beilschmidt whistles.

‘Shit, that’s brutal. What did he call you?’

‘A whore.’

Francis chokes on his iced coffee and Arthur throws a wadded-up napkin at him.

‘Be quiet, you. It wasn’t in the context you’re thinking about.’

‘ _Thank you_ ,’ Francis says, ‘for that mental image. I will treasure it for a long time.’

‘Disgusting,’ says Beilschmidt. ‘You’re disgusting, Francis. Kirkland, back me up here.’

‘I agree. Very much so.’

‘Why are we even talking to him?’

Arthur shrugs. Beilschmidt isn’t handsome in the pleasant sun-soaked manner of Alfred’s handsomeness, but he carries himself with a kind of sharp poise straight out of those eighteenth-century military portraits. It’s hard to look away. Francis and Beilschmidt both have a talent for drawing a crowd, but Arthur knows for a fact that Francis tries to do it; for Beilschmidt it comes as naturally as breathing. Arthur and Francis sometimes catch themselves wearing matching expressions, which they react to with horror and never, _never_ acknowledge. Francis and Beilschmidt, on the other hand, couldn’t be more different if they tried.

‘He makes good food,’ Arthur says, once he realises he’s been lingering a second too long and Francis’ gaze is on him.

‘Close, but wrong answer.’ Beilschmidt snaps his fingers. ‘Eye candy! That’s the basis of all my friendships. Elizabeta, Aarav, Kiku, Matthew —’

‘Matthew is younger than you, Gilbert, you are such a pervert.’

‘I resent that,’ Beilschmidt says hotly. ‘You were checking him out yesterday. And then there’s Antonio, obviously.’

Francis clicks his tongue. ‘Antonio is cute now, but do you remember? He looked awful in third year.’

‘Who wasn’t awful in third year?’ Beilschmidt demands, and then he and Arthur both turn to look at Francis. ‘Right, forget it. Anyway, do you want to call me tonight? About our maths assignment?’

All Arthur remembers from third year is Héderváry’s massive crush on their history teacher, whom Beilschmidt insulted for ten months and who moved back to Austria at the end of the year (for unrelated reasons). To this day Arthur and most of their classmates still aren’t sure whether Beilschmidt is sweet on Héderváry. Beilschmidt himself probably doesn’t know whether he is sweet on Héderváry. Arthur says: ‘Yes, all right. Is ten o’clock all right with you?’

‘Okay.’ Beilschmidt’s eyebrows and eyelashes are so fair as to be barely visible, which makes the narrow gleam of his eyes all the more startling. He’s capable of anything; he’s one of the few people who are never late to their class outings, and he’s ruthlessly efficient when he needs to be. Arthur hasn’t studied anybody so closely in a long time. He likes Antonio — well, he doesn’t _like_ Antonio, exactly — because you can’t help being drawn to Antonio, who’s sweet as cinnamon and the kind of boy you look at in cafés, on trains. Francis’ sulky elegance is a frustrating fact of life. It’s widely agreed that those three are attractive, but Arthur’s never paid any particular attention to Beilschmidt — Beilschmidt who is always with Héderváry, who steals Kiku at the worst moments, who sums up people in a glance and finds them wanting.

‘I must warn you,’ says Francis, ‘that Gilbert always waits until the very last ring to answer his phone. He likes listening to the ringtone. It could be his long-lost lover for all he cares.’

‘That’s why my long-lost lover is long-lost.’

‘No, Gilbert, that’s why you’re single.’

‘Asshole. You’re killing me,’ Beilschmidt says. Beilschmidt is too pale to blush, but he glances at Arthur quickly and his mouth pulls sideways in a manner that is awkward and unsubtle and utterly endearing. ‘Kirkland, that’s your cue to volunteer.’

‘Good god, man, don’t date British blokes. They’re revolting,’ says Arthur absently. He hasn’t anything much to offer Beilschmidt, after all. All he’s got is a collection of data points and inferences, sitting behind his teeth and daring him to put a name to them.

* * *

Arthur nearly forgets he’s supposed to call Beilschmidt. He’s just turned in his history essay and is grinding out a last sentence of French, ten minutes before the deadline, when he happens to glance at the clock and promptly drops his dictionary.

He pushes his laptop aside and rubs his eyes. The words on the screen are blurring into each other; he blinks several times but that doesn’t clear his head. Some days his classes pass so quickly that he looks at his notes and can’t remember writing a single word. Other days feel like decades. In his less rational moods (waking up at two in the morning, damp with a nervous sweat, the sheets tangled around his ankles) he _hates_ school, he hates most things he does with a passion, and he does them anyway. Because he takes pride in his growing resume for next year’s university applications; because he won’t admit to feeling the need to match up to Francis’ pitiless ambition; because he enjoys being right there at the top in a top school, a spoiled self-contained universe which costs more than his family can really afford.

The bedroom next door has been yelling at him to keep his music down for the last half-hour. Considerate younger brother that he is, Arthur turns it off entirely, presses the call icon next to Beilschmidt’s number and crawls into bed as he listens to the phone ring, pulling the sheets up around his waist. Childhood made Arthur obstinate and school made him scathing. He’ll just have to accept that he’s been an arse since birth. He’s calling two hours late and nobody is really surprised. There are very few people who can do what Arthur does, i.e. be a tosser and be very good at it, which takes serious talent. He keeps his hours tight and his temper short. But no one puts pressure on Arthur to _be_ Arthur. The very idea is insulting. There’s only Arthur, his head aching and his bones scrubbed to an efficient shining rawness, with nothing left to say.

Beilschmidt picks up on the second ring.

‘Is this a good time?’

‘YES,’ says Beilschmidt, sounding young and out of breath. Arthur unplugs his laptop from the charging station and sets it beside him on the bed. ‘Wasn’t waiting up or anything, don’t worry about it.’

‘It’s late, I’m sorry. I can call you back another —’

‘I said it’s okay.’

Arthur proofreads the French essay once, clicks submit and closes his browser window. His eyes feel hot. ‘Have you seen the question paper? Ten questions, pick two.’

‘I’m looking at it now. What do you want to do? It’s all the same to me.’

Arthur, in fact, has not so much as glanced through the questions. He can’t even remember where he put his copy of the question paper. As he turns his bag inside out and upside down, he traps the phone between his ear and shoulder and asks in what he hopes is his usual cool, detached voice: ‘Number three?’

‘Um,’ says Beilschmidt.

Arthur realises too late that his default voice is the fake-BBC I’m-a-debater-kick-me voice. Bugger it all. He finds the question paper at last, wedged between two pages of his foolscap pad, and smoothes it out hurriedly. ‘Does it look all right to you?’

‘It’s fine. You sound busy.’

Damn, damn, damn.

‘I’m not. Don’t worry.’ Arthur reaches for his laptop and pulls up the half-finished proposal for debate camp. He is a closed system, functional and clean. Perpetual motion. He thinks of Beilschmidt stretched out in bed and the sharp contemptuous twist of Beilschmidt’s mouth. Not now, though: Beilschmidt’s get-to-work expression is picture-perfect.

‘It’s okay,’ says Beilschmidt unexpectedly. ‘We’ll get this done quick. I mean it.’

Beilschmidt is as meticulous as his brother, Arthur knows by now. Beilschmidt looks like he ran out of fucks to give a long time ago and is now running solely on exhaustion and a healthy dose of self-loathing. Just looking at the logistics spreadsheet makes Arthur’s headache worse. He massages the bridge of his nose.

‘We still have to pick another one.’

‘Let’s see.’ There’s a brief pause and he hears Beilschmidt crinkling the page, and here’s the best part: Arthur is better at handling projects and school events and running the entire student council than, oh, maintaining any kind of real relationship. ‘Question eight looks pretty easy.’

‘All right.’ He trusts Beilschmidt’s judgment.

‘Shouldn’t be too difficult. Anyway, if we need help, I’ve got Ludwig.’

‘I’ve got Francis.’

‘Okay,’ says Beilschmidt, ‘we can work with that. Wait, does he actually explain stuff to you when you ask?’

‘He’s quite happy to do it without being asked.’ Wet-eyed for no good reason at all, Arthur drags his sleeve across his face. ‘It’s a habit left over from that first-year French peer tutoring programme.’

‘Was I around then? No, don’t think so. Antonio and Francis were third-years when I transferred here. What was he like?’

‘He had no brain-to-mouth filter. To be fair, I was a real twat at the time.’

Beilschmidt’s laugh is no more than a short little huff of breath. ‘Sounds like a shitshow. I’d pay to watch that.’

‘It wasn’t too bad. Once we went out for lunch and got free dessert because Francis smiled at the waitress.’

‘You’re shitting me.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Reminds me of when I first met Francis.’

‘’Allo, _je m’appelle_ Francis Bonnefoy and I am better than you will ever be. Also, you ‘ave taken my seat.’

‘Not bad. He didn’t say it exactly like that.’

‘Did he toss his hair?’

‘There wasn’t much left to toss. We were sorry for Francis. He really hates that stupid haircut.’

The bedroom light across the hall goes off. All his brothers are probably asleep by now. Arthur considers making a midnight cup of tea; his throat feels like bare wire. He sleeps badly, and doesn’t eat most days, and wanders in and out of classes in a glass bubble of his own. He’s quite sure he’s gone full days without speaking to anyone before. He tells himself: _this is normal._ He’ll get through the rest of the school term. He’s been through worse (he doesn’t think about fourth year, when Arthur came to school drunk in the mornings or got steadily, patiently drunk throughout the too-bright afternoon, his blood a pleasant haze, till the noise of his classmates blurred into something almost bearable and he felt like he was floating).

He isn’t particularly concerned about debate camp. It’s after finals and Héderváry is as good a president as Arthur could ask for, and Arthur is good in general.

‘Do you think we can finish this in two or three meetings?’

‘Sure, if you’re being optimistic.’

Arthur lies back on the bed and closes his eyes. He is not sure when exactly he figured out that Gilbert Beilschmidt has a crush on him. He is not sure what makes him worth the energy.

‘…classes?’ Beilschmidt is saying.

‘Come again?’

‘I said, how about this Friday after classes? I’ll be done at two-thirty. You?’

‘My last lesson ends at half past three. I’ve got nothing on after that, so Friday’s fine if you don’t mind waiting.’

‘No problem.’

Arthur takes a risk. He asks, ‘What are you doing now?’

‘Hmm? I’m watching bird videos on YouTube with the sound off.’

‘Right,’ says Arthur. He smiles despite himself. ‘I thought as much.’

‘You going to sleep soon?’

‘Not yet. You should, though.’

‘It’s okay. I’m a boarder, remember? I can wake up like twenty minutes before the bell and get to school on time if I skip breakfast.’

‘Don’t skip breakfast.’

‘Ludwig says that too, and guess who doesn’t eat enough? Ludwig!’

Arthur decides he’s going to go get that cup of tea. He gets out of bed, dragging one hand over his face. He’s exhausted. He’ll be less emotional at a more reasonable hour, probably. ‘I’m going to hang up now.’

‘Okay. One more thing,’ says Beilschmidt. ‘Can we go to the dorm? Thought you might want the library, but we can’t eat in the library.’

‘Anything’s fine. I have a key card to your dorm, so you don’t have to smuggle me in.’

‘Wait, why do you have a key card?’

‘Antonio told the office he’d lost his card and gave me the old one.’

‘Right,’ Beilschmidt says. There’s a pause: Arthur swallows it. ‘I forgot about that.’

* * *

_Telegram, 00:55am_

**You:** dude

 **You:** can i take out a coupon for some sad time

 **Antonio:** omg

 **Antonio:** yeah what is it!!

 **Antonio:** talk to me about your feelings

 **Antonio:** I’ll get the ice cream we can cuddle in the common room and watch mean girls for the 3856354 th time

 **You:** youre really turning me off here

 **You:** i was about to shed a single manly tear but i think my dick just wilted a little bit in my pants

 **You:** its still 5m long tho dont get me wrong

 **Antonio:** okok

 **Antonio:** srsly tho what’s the matter

 **Antonio:** tell me who broke your heart so I can kill them

 **You:** im not upset lmao

 **You:** i just need you to tell me

 **You:** how do i stop being sad

 **You:** and start being rad

 **Antonio:** !!!! you’re asking the right person!!!!!

 **Antonio:** but you know I can’t really help if you don’t tell me what’s bothering you

 **You:** its not rly that important

 **Antonio:** okay

 **Antonio:** I guess what you need to remember is

 **Antonio:** whatever it is, it’s probably not as bad as it seems

 **Antonio:** and there’s usually already a solution staring you in the face

 **Antonio:** you just haven’t thought of it yet

 **Antonio:** at least, that’s what francis would say

 **Antonio:** then again you and francis are very different people

 **You:** not really tbh

 **You:** hes only different from me on the surface

 **Antonio:** that’s true

 **Antonio:** and honestly I think you just need to remember how GOOD you are??

 **Antonio:** like

 **Antonio:** even though you think you’re lonely you have a lot of friends who really care about you!!!

 **Antonio:** you know I love you right

 **Antonio:** no homo

 **Antonio:** okay maybe a little homo

 **You:** a reasonable amount of homo

 **Antonio:** dude you know alfred jones said no homo to francis once and I think francis might have cried a little

 **You:** isnt jones straight

 **Antonio:** who the hell knows

 **You:** ^

 **Antonio:** yeah anyway so

 **Antonio:** school might not be your favourite thing in the world but that doesn’t mean you’re dumb!

 **Antonio:** everybody knows you’re a lot better at things like maths than you say you are

 **You:** i talk a lot of shit to make myself look cool so thats actually not much

 **Antonio:** SHUT UP

 **You:** ok sorry

 **Antonio:** and I’ve seen you work really hard for things that actually interest you

 **You:** thanks man

 **You:** but its not really about school

 **You:** more like

 **You:** what would you do if you wanted to get close to someone but theyre kind of

 **You:** not on the market

 **Antonio:** wait what

 **You:** yeah bad idea right

 **Antonio:** GILBERT WHAT

 **Antonio:** WHAT!!!!!!!!

 **You:** hypothetically

 **Antonio:** you like someone??????

 **Antonio:** WHEN DID THIS START

 **Antonio:** WHY DIDN’T I NOTICE THIS

 **You:** HYPOTHETICALLY

 **Antonio:** HAHAHAHA SURE

 **You:** dont tell francis or anyone

 **Antonio:** okay I won’t I promise

 **Antonio:** do I know this person???

 **You:** dont think so

 **Antonio:** well obviously the best solution is

 **Antonio:** uh what’s it called

 **Antonio:** murder the hypotenuse

 **You:** jesus christ

 **Antonio:** kill your rival!!

 **You:** ANTONIO

 **Antonio:** HAHAHAH I’m just kidding

 **Antonio:** I don’t know man

 **Antonio:** my only boy problems revolve around straight boys HAHA

 **You:** im so sorry about vargas dude you deserve better

 **Antonio:** yeah okay we’re not talking about that now

 **Antonio:** sorry I really don’t know :(

 **Antonio:** all you can do is get over it I guess?

 **Antonio:** I should learn to take my own advice haha

 **You:** itll get better

 **You:** fwiw you have good taste

 **Antonio:** yeah……..i do lmao

 **Antonio:** also

 **Antonio:** you’re never gonna run out of coupons for Sad Time!!!

 **Antonio:** you have unlimited membership!!!

 **You:** wow thats depressing

 **Antonio:** okay I could have phrased that better

 **You:** youre like my drug dealer but for redeemable happiness coupons

 **You:** no expiry date

 **Antonio:** I’m your ticket to happyland!!

 **You:** jesus youre creepy

 **Antonio:** ;)

 **You:** but thanks for putting up with all that emotional bs

 **You:** sorry im v sick of my teenage angst too

 **Antonio:** you’re a teenager

 **Antonio:** it’s an occupational hazard

 **Antonio:** at least you grew up cute!

 **You:** THATS RIGHT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok maybe i should clarify everyone's ages:  
> fifth-years (17yo): arthur, gilbert, alfred, elizabeta, kiku, lovino, natalya, vash...yeah most of the characters mentioned in passing are classmates with arthur/gilbert  
> sixth-years/seniors (18yo): antonio, francis, tim, ivan, yao  
> fourth-years (16yo): matthew  
> staff: ludwig beilschmidt (physics), feliciano vargas (guidance counsellor/psychologist), heracles karpusi (philo), irunya chernenko (maths), roderich edelstein (history)
> 
> aarav = aph india (i just googled most common boy names in india sorry idk if it sounds too stereotypical) and that time antonio walked in on him and gilbert jamming to bollywood music videos is probably the reason antonio thinks gilbert is a good dancer


	3. stayed up to prove i can keep up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update school is killing me  
> chapter title: [the void by metric](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FcUdCwbnwhs)

Kirkland’s hair apparently hasn’t seen a comb in seventeen years. It clings damply to his temples, catching the smoke drifting upwards from his heavy mouth. He’s leaning against the balustrade, cigarette dangling from his fingers, and the set of his shoulders is angular and graceful. He turns his head as Gilbert approaches.

‘Skiving off, Beilschmidt?’

‘Smoking, Kirkland?’

Kirkland smirks. It’s a pretty sight. ‘I could book you right now.’

‘If you’re on detention duty, I don’t mind.’

Gilbert rests his elbows on the cool stone of the balustrade. People call this the designated smokers’ area for good reason: there are no classrooms nearby and teachers never take this route. The open hallway looks out over the tennis courts and the track, autumn chill mixing with the minty scent of grass. Yesterday Gilbert tackled Kirkland to the ground during a football game in PE, to Alfred Jones’ whoop of approval.

Kirkland asks, ‘Do you smoke?’

Gilbert shakes his head. He tried once and almost died, while Antonio laughed and pounded his back. The wind stings his nostrils — cold in the way that tastes metallic, the way that makes your cheeks feel clean and dry and turns the tip of Kirkland’s nose frost-pink. This close he can see the spattering of summer freckles, fading like constellations, and the flush of uneven windburn that stripes Kirkland’s cheekbones.

‘Relax. I don’t have asthma or anything. How do you get rid of the smell?’

‘These days, they don’t really notice,’ answers Kirkland vaguely. He sounds scattered and scraped raw, like he’s been coughing up the dust in his lungs one too many times. ‘I’ve got a pack of mints, anyway.’

‘Good call.’

‘Want one?’

‘No, thanks.’

Kirkland lowers his head briefly to examine the deep grooves worn into the balustrade. His eyes are faraway. He shifts, crossing one ankle behind the other. ‘What are you missing?’

‘That’s a bit deep for nine in the morning.’

Kirkland’s amusement deepens the bruises under his eyes. ‘I meant lessons and you know it. German?’

‘Physics lecture.’

Kirkland hums: no judgment. ‘Does your brother teach you?’

‘No way. I’d ruin his reputation.’ That gets him a real chuckle, while he tries to wrap his head around Kirkland’s new, shy formality. ‘He doesn’t even mark my exam papers. I think it’s school policy. Like, I’m not the only one with a relative who’s a staff member. There’s Dr Vargas and his brother. Ludwig and Feliciano are friends, you know, which is cool.’

‘Are you friends with Lovino Vargas?’

Gilbert snorts. ‘No. I kind of like him, though. He’s a dick but he’s feisty.’

Ludwig and Feliciano are an organic machine: they fit together so well that they don’t ever need oiling. Gilbert wonders sometimes what it feels like to have outsiders think of you as a single entity, to code entire conversations into a glance, to be part of a whole.

‘You know,’ Gilbert says as Kirkland takes another drag, ‘you’re going to ruin your nice singing voice if you keep this up.’

‘I don’t do it that often.’ Kirkland’s been glancing at Gilbert, and now he lingers. ‘All right?’

‘Yeah, just tired.’

‘Don’t you sleep?’

‘I sleep plenty. You look like shit.’

‘You look worse.’

‘Are you skipping too?’

‘I’ve got a free period.’ Kirkland gives him a slow once-over, now, and Gilbert holds himself very still under the weight of Kirkland’s gaze. Kirkland takes his time about it, his eyes measured and careful. He doesn’t look at Gilbert the way Kirkland normally looks at people, which is the kind of piercing, jewel-toned calculation that automatically gets your defenses up. He just looks as though he’s trying to memorise every detail of Gilbert’s face.

‘Physics, chem, German and maths, am I right?’

‘Econs too. And you? Lit, history…’

‘French,’ Kirkland says, ‘and economics and maths. Yes.’

Kirkland and Francis have the same subject combination, except that Francis qualified for advanced courses in senior year (because of course he did), and is now tearing his hair out over his research paper for fucking Western philosophy (because Francis has a death wish). At heart, Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy are exactly the same: ambition, and brilliance, and a truly impressive talent for not caring about anyone else.

‘We’re meeting this afternoon, right?’

‘Yes, at three-thirty.’ Kirkland doesn’t look at Gilbert, but takes the wet filter from his lips and exhales thoughtfully. Gilbert is tired of wanting. ‘How’d you learn English?’

‘With difficulty.’ Gilbert laughs shortly. ‘No, I’m kidding. I knew English before I moved here. Most German people speak enough English to get by. Watched a lot of American movies when I was a kid.’

‘Enough to take classes and exams in English?’

‘Can’t remember. At least I wasn’t as bad as Francis.’

Kirkland smiles a little. ‘Francis’ English is perfectly fine and he knows it.’

‘Yeah, but he pretends to be insecure for some reason. He’s been living here since he was thirteen.’

‘ _Is_ he pretending?’

‘Who even knows with Francis? He sleep-talks in French when he’s stressed, did you know?’

‘Yes, I know.’

He can’t help himself; his mouth runs away from him. ‘Does Antonio talk in his sleep?’

Kirkland grimaces. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

Gilbert cringes inwardly. He doesn’t have time for this. He’s got everything else shouting under his skin — new test scores uploaded this morning, his econs tutor pulling him aside to tell him that if he doesn’t get his shit together by finals she’ll have to advise him to drop the subject. He’s been wondering if Kirkland _knows_ and has always known and just goes on sleeping with Antonio anyway. It’s okay if Kirkland’s not interested, obviously. It’s just, he thought Kirkland might, and Gilbert’s pretty decent-looking by most people’s standards, and he’s not as fucking obnoxious now as he was in second year, and. Meetings with the deputy headmaster, school-stamped letters to old Fritz back in Germany. Ludwig taking off his reading glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. Finals.

The silence stretches; it climbs up his throat. Kirkland looks at Gilbert strangely, his eyes soft and curious.

Kirkland looks uncharacteristically at ease, Roman-coin profile blurred against the dim morning. Gilbert wants him badly. He’s sick of it.

‘I’ll meet you back here at three-thirty, okay?’

‘Yes, all right.’

When Gilbert glances sideways, the bitten-off line of Kirkland’s mouth is wry and self-deprecating like it always is.

Kirkland eyes him owlishly through the smoke. ‘Why don’t you go to class?’

‘Why don’t you suck my dick?’

Kirkland smiles — a rare sight — and stubs his cigarette out. ‘Maybe later.’

* * *

It’s fickle, this thing called attraction. Kirkland is, strictly speaking, not a really good-looking guy, not that Gilbert has any right to have high standards. The skin around Kirkland’s eyes always looks raw and painfully dry; his cheeks are too round for his sharp chin, features irregular in a dusty, charming way. It’s just the way Kirkland lifts his chin, his cool poise, humming a guitar riff to himself in his rare good moods, his unconscious habit of sliding a hand into his trouser pocket as he stands up. Kirkland strolls into the lift and presses the button for the sixth floor without having to ask.

Gilbert’s had people over before. Sneaking Kiku into the dorm took some strategising, like tossing Gilbert’s key card back and forth over the side gate and taking a complicated route through the back gardens to avoid the security guard. Matthew — well, Gilbert and Matthew figured they could just walk right through the gates and the guard wouldn’t notice Matthew. They were right.

That’s not an option with Kirkland, though. People tend to look twice at Kirkland in the hallways because Kirkland walks like a king. So does Jones, who’s just been named next year’s head prefect, making him half of a formidable power couple with Kirkland. Gilbert used to be like Jones before he went and fucked up. Kirkland has a knack for looking taller than he really is, which is why he is somehow just as impressive as six-foot-tall Alfred Jones and brilliantly condescending Wang Yao. Just now Kirkland politely said good afternoon to the security guard and slapped Antonio’s key card against the reader without even looking. He could get away with murder.

But Kirkland’s jittery now, following Gilbert into the double room he shares with Ludwig and looking around for a place to sit down. Gilbert can tell from the way Kirkland draws his bottom lip between his teeth, hands curling self-consciously into his pockets. He’s sharp-eyed and lovely. Kirkland is so wary, so impeccably self-possessed, that you can barely see where Kirkland stops and Arthur begins. Kirkland could take over a country with a snap of his fingers, all competent and contemptuous. Arthur is untouchable.

‘This is nice,’ Kirkland ventures. Gilbert raises his eyebrows at him and Kirkland winces, though it’s barely visible. Gilbert should really stop being good enough at reading Kirkland to notice these things. ‘You’re much tidier than me, at any rate.’

Most people are surprised when they see Gilbert’s room. Gilbert _is_ neat; he just organises his stuff according to a system nobody else understands. It makes a lot of sense to keep your booze in your sock drawer. He drops his bag beside the shoe rack and points Kirkland towards Ludwig’s desk.

‘You want pancakes? Matthew taught me. They don’t taste as good when I make them though.’

Kirkland sinks gratefully into Ludwig’s battered swivel chair. ‘No, thank you.’

Gilbert opens a drawer and fishes out his maths textbook. ‘If you’re hungry, there’s spritzkuchen in the fridge.’

‘Is that a kind of burger?’ says Kirkland in an atrocious American accent. ‘Goddamn.’

He laughs. ‘Piss off. They’re like doughnuts. They’re really good. Take one or five, I don’t care.’

They share a pastry, in the end, dropping crumbs between the pages of Gilbert’s textbook. Kirkland’s lecture notes are spread out on the desk between them and he lets Gilbert go through the chapters with a pen and highlighter. It takes longer than expected. He has to reread question three several times before he understands what they’re supposed to do, while Kirkland puzzles over an equation for question eight that isn’t going anywhere.

‘Multiply it out,’ Gilbert says eventually, ripping a page off Kirkland’s foolscap pad, ‘and try this.’

‘Drawing it?’

‘Yeah, they want a diagram anyway.’ Gilbert knocks his graphing calculator against the side of the desk until it starts working properly. At Kirkland’s quizzical look, he says, ‘I’ll get a new one next week.’

Kirkland nods, mouth quirking upwards. The dorms are quiet at this time of day, except for the yells of some teachers’ kids messing around on the swings. Light flickers through the curtains onto the wintry tones of Kirkland’s face, gold-leaf lashes dark against his cheekbones. He’s frowning in concentration. Gilbert crosses out the beginning of his answer four times and starts over before Kirkland takes his wrist, palm cool against Gilbert’s skin, and says quietly, ‘Just continue.’

Gilbert’s not sure how much time passes, but he’s halfway through his work when Kirkland jerks his chin at the framed photograph of Fritz and a much younger Gilbert on Ludwig’s desk and asks, ‘Is that your father? Grandfather?’

‘Godfather. Sort of. We’re orphans.’ Yawning, Gilbert settles back in his chair and Kirkland hands over the answer he’s been working on. Like most people used to public speaking, Kirkland has two voices. There’s the crisp radio-friendly one he uses for debate speeches and announcements over the intercom, and the one he slips into when he’s drunk and comfortable. In Kirkland’s natural accent, the vowels are heavy and lush and so thick you can hardly make out the words unless he’s swearing. Now he’s doing a sort of halfway voice. He pauses before he speaks; Gilbert can see him considering every word. Kirkland has the kind of sensitivity to language, English-bred, that makes him careful of his phrasing. Gilbert just gets to the point and doesn’t bother about the trimmings he discards along the way.

Kirkland abandons his first two questions before settling on the safest option. ‘Why didn’t he come with you?’

‘Oh, Fritz? He didn’t want to. Said he’s too old to move. He wouldn’t like living in the dorms, anyway. But Ludwig wants to save up and look for an apartment near school.’

‘Do you want to move out?’

‘No. Maybe. We’d bring the dogs here if we had a place of our own.’ Gilbert taps his pen on the edge of the desk. ‘You made a mistake here. Nothing serious, just carelessness. It doesn’t look half bad so far.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’ Kirkland takes the pen from him. ‘Is this a two or a seven? I can’t read your handwriting.’

‘Shit, I don’t know. I’m left-handed, I can’t help it. I think it’s a seven.’

‘That’s all right,’ Kirkland says. ‘You haven’t seen Alfred’s handwriting.’

‘Who’s he working with?’

‘Laurinaitis.’

‘And Łukasiewicz is with Elizabeta, right? You know, your boy Jones asked me if they’re dating.’

Kirkland snorts, then catches himself. ‘Well, they are close after all. It’s a reasonable assumption.’

‘Yeah, if you have no gaydar. Did Jones ever meet your boyfriend?’

Kirkland pauses in his chicken-scratch. ‘What boyfriend?’

Gilbert looks up at the ceiling, trying to remember. ‘There was one guy last year who was really into you. I saw you with him all the time.’ Kirkland’s giving him a blank look, so he elaborates: ‘This Asian kid with a cool haircut.’

‘ _Oh_ ,’ says Kirkland. ‘That was nothing. He was an exchange student. He went back to Hong Kong at the end of the year.’

‘You sad about it?’

Kirkland stares at him. ‘Not really.’

It occurs to Gilbert that Arthur Kirkland has been making a conscious effort to be nice to him.

They’re making good progress when Antonio comes in, eyes lighting up in surprise and pleasure when he sees Kirkland.

‘Antonio!’ Gilbert drops his pen and leans over to bump fists with Antonio. ‘Francis says he saw your biology notes in the bathroom. Also, that’s gross. Who studies for tests while they’re sitting on the toilet? Why do you do these things?’

‘I know, I know. I’ll get them later.’ Antonio swipes Gilbert’s phone charger and falls facedown onto his bed. Antonio loves Gilbert and Ludwig’s room because it has a fridge and a tiny stove and even a bathroom, teacher privileges, though Gilbert kicks him out whenever Ludwig’s feeling stressed. ‘Arthur, what are you doing here?’

‘What are _you_ doing here?’

Kirkland’s voice has altered slightly and Gilbert feels abruptly out of place.

‘I just want to take a nap. My room stinks so much right now, you have no idea.’

Gilbert and Kirkland exchange glances. Besides a spectacular amount of weed, the Dutch roommate keeps a fucking rabbit in Antonio’s room. Gilbert couldn’t even hide a chick the size of his fist for a week before getting caught. Admittedly he carried it around on his head most of the time, but that’s not the point.

‘You could open a window once in a while,’ Kirkland suggests. ‘I know it’s a bit of a wild idea, but maybe, just maybe, it might help.’

‘I’ll make a note of that,’ Antonio replies, and picks up one of Kirkland’s markers and starts writing on the back of his hand. Gilbert throws an eraser at him.

Antonio’s not like Francis; he treats everyone the same way. But Gilbert suspects he plays up the Spanish accent on purpose because Kirkland finds it sexy. Gilbert is still busy adjusting his world view when Kirkland makes a soft, amused noise in the back of his throat.

‘He’s very distracting.’

‘I know, right?’ Gilbert says.

‘He should make himself useful.’

‘He should go to the supermarket and get us beer. Antonio’s actually legal.’

‘Antonio doesn’t want to.’ Buried in Gilbert’s blankets, Antonio raises a hand and lazily flips them off. ‘Don’t talk to me. I’m asleep. Francis says you should drink less, anyway.’

‘ _Francis_ should drink less,’ Kirkland says. ‘He’s been living on coffee and cheap wine for the past month at least.’

Gilbert checks his work one last time and turns off his calculator. ‘Where’s Francis?’

‘I think he fell asleep in the computer lab. Want me to get him?’

Gilbert shakes his head. ‘Francis doesn’t sleep enough.’

‘What’s he done now?’ Kirkland asks.

‘Spent this whole week sweet-talking companies into sponsoring prom, and stressing about prom, and being dramatic in the pantry at ten p.m., and doing finals practice papers from like three years ago.’

‘Really?’ Antonio whistles, impressed. ‘Son of a _bitch_.’

‘Watch your language, motherfucker,’ Gilbert says.

Antonio’s smile shows his teeth. ‘He’ll be okay.’

‘He’d better. If you don’t want to go, want anything from the supermarket?’

‘Alcohol,’ Kirkland and Antonio answer at the same time.

‘Piss off. Kirkland, you coming?’

‘I just want to finish this part. I think we’re on track, don’t you?’

Gilbert rubs the back of his neck. ‘Yeah, we can finish it next time we meet. Want to study for a bit when I get back?’

‘If I’m not imposing,’ Kirkland says.

‘Since I asked, obviously not. Okay, Antonio, you’re responsible for keeping him company while I take a walk.’

Kirkland yawns, but he looks more alive than he did this morning. ‘It doesn’t take much effort. He’s quite entertaining on his own.’

‘Effort?’ echoes Antonio in mock consternation. ‘Responsibility?’

Antonio follows Gilbert to the door, eyes sun-sweet. Outside looks cool and inviting through the long windows. They’ve had late lunches on weekends like this, wedged into the long sofa seat at the corner table in the little, cheap pizza place down the street.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, I just want some fresh air.’

Antonio never picks up on Gilbert’s moods unless he’s very obviously losing his shit, and even then Antonio has trouble figuring Gilbert out if Francis isn’t there to be the voice of reason. Gilbert is grateful for that now, as he always is. Antonio likes him more than he deserves, and Gilbert doesn’t need Antonio to know about his petty jealousy. Antonio thinks he’s just stressed about school. Gilbert lets him go on thinking that. It’s not entirely a lie, anyway.

‘You’re making really good progress,’ Antonio says. ‘See, we told you it would help, having Arthur around.’

‘I know.’ Gilbert leans against the doorframe. If Gilbert pulled himself together and _learned_ he would probably be a lot like Francis and Kirkland: steely-eyed, competitive. Antonio and Francis are already busy with university applications and scholarship interviews, though Gilbert isn’t sure whether Antonio even wants to go to university. They don’t talk about these things, him and Antonio.

‘I miss the way you used to be, right after you transferred here.’

‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ Gilbert gives a startled laugh. ‘I was so annoying. There’s a reason I had no friends except you and Francis for like a year.’

Antonio shrugs. ‘I don’t really care.’

* * *

_WhatsApp, 6:08pm_

**You:** I’ll be late for dinner, sorry

 **Alfred:** dude why

 **Alfred:** are you still on your date with gilbo bielshit what’s it like

 **Alfred:** does he listen to angry german heavy metal

 **Alfred:** are there BIRDS EVERYWHERE

 **You:** Well

 **You:** There’s no tea

 **Alfred:** GASP

 **Alfred:** maybe he threw it in the boston harbor

 **You:** Very funny, Alfred.

 **Alfred:** don’t use periods at the ends of your sentences at me you piece of shit

* * *

_Snapchat, 6:10pm_

_(Image: A bottle of Kirkland Signature Natural Spring Water on the prize table at a charity marathon, with the hand of an unseen person — presumably Matthew Williams — giving a thumbs-up next to it.)_

**Matt:** I KNOW YOU’RE THIRSTY

_(Image: Selfie of Gilbert Beilschmidt in the snacks aisle of a supermarket, giving the camera the middle finger.)_

**You:** FUCK OFF

* * *

Gilbert comes back to an empty room. The lights are off.

Ludwig won’t be back for another hour, so he puts the bottle of Coke away in the mini-fridge and leaves the chips on his bedside table and goes to the desk. Kirkland’s bag is gone. He’s lined up Gilbert’s pens and calculator neatly along the edge of the desk, because Kirkland may be messy as fuck by nature but he also has good manners.

Gilbert breathes. In, out. He puts the evening paper on the counter for Ludwig and looks around his bedroom for a moment. It’s nearly dark outside; the days are getting shorter as winter approaches. He could just leave it. He’s tired from the day, from his shitty morning and the surprisingly productive work session and the ten minutes’ walk to the supermarket in near-freezing air, and he wants to sleep till the end of the week. He could. He really could. To Gilbert’s credit, he doesn’t miss entire days of school, except a few times in fourth year when things got really bad. He just shows up in the mornings and sleepwalks through the hours till it’s time to go home.

Gilbert is so used to being fucking lazy. His eyelids are already heavy. He takes the lift up one floor to Antonio’s room, knocks on the door and opens it when nobody answers.

Kirkland is asleep in Antonio’s bed.

Okay.

Gilbert turns round and walks right out again. He scans the corridor briefly; it’s empty, and his mind is blank. He doesn’t really think about what he’s saying when he bangs on the door again and yells, ‘Antonio, there is leftover paella on my toilet tank, why are you like this!’

Wang Yao pauses on his way out of his own bedroom to give Gilbert an incredulous look, and Gilbert waves. Then he pokes his head into Antonio’s room again. Kirkland’s sitting up in bed, blinking unsteadily. He looks at Gilbert in confusion, his downturned mouth slack and drugged with sleep, drowsy as a prince.

‘Good morning,’ Gilbert says.

Kirkland’s tie and trousers are lying on the floor as if they’ve been thrown there. Gilbert shuts the door behind him and turns his back as Kirkland gets dressed. As soon as he steps inside he’s hit with the concentrated stench of weed and rabbit shit. Francis says Antonio’s a saint for putting up with this, but honestly, it’s more likely that Antonio just doesn’t care.

Kirkland asks, ‘What time is it?’

‘About six-thirty. Where’s Antonio?’

‘I don’t know.’

Considering that they fuck about once a week, Antonio and Kirkland know remarkably little about each other, but Gilbert’s not about to comment on that. The rabbit’s in a cage beside the window, poorly hidden behind a stack of suspicious-looking magazines. You have to take your hat off to Antonio’s roommate. How does that get past room inspections?

‘…took it back.’

Gilbert blinks. He scrubs a hand over his eyes. ‘What?’

‘I finished question three,’ says Kirkland. He’s more awake now. His voice is clearer, closer to the honey-smooth, deceptively gentle version Gilbert recognises. Kirkland can fall asleep anywhere; Alfred Jones spends half his life elbowing Kirkland awake in lectures. ‘I took it back, but do you want to keep it instead?’

Kirkland’s throwing his tie around his collar, not looking at Gilbert. Then his eyes snap up to Gilbert’s face for just an instant, and he glances away just as quickly. Gilbert doesn’t know what to make of that. He doesn’t really care, anyway.

‘Beilschmidt.’

‘Yeah. No. I mean, you can keep it. I don’t care.’

Kirkland pauses in the middle of lacing up his shoes. He looks blood-fed in the low evening light, a rich flush high in his cheeks. Gilbert has seen this boy vomit into a grimy toilet bowl and pull himself together in ten minutes to win a national debate and shake off Jones’ hand on his shoulder. ‘Everything all right?’

Gilbert sits down on the window ledge and makes a stupid face at the rabbit. ‘Yeah. Is your sense of smell all right?’

Kirkland looks at Gilbert again from under his eyelashes, drops his gaze, bites his lip. He doesn’t answer. He picks up his bag, which has been kicked partly under Antonio’s bed, and something about the way he slips his arms through his straps is very small and ordinary. His shirttails are badly tucked in — Kirkland doesn’t care much about his appearance, too busy or too absent-minded to notice his tie’s come undone, or maybe he enjoys being a student council president who forgets to take his earrings out, or maybe he just likes forming a contrast with Francis. How much of Kirkland is genuine, anyway?

‘When would you like to meet up again? To finish the rest of the assignment?’

‘Aren’t you busy next week?’

‘I can make time for you,’ says Kirkland, inexplicably generous. As he brushes past Gilbert on his way to the door Gilbert catches the tang of cigarette smoke and the faint apple scent of his skin.

‘Any time’s fine. Where are you going?’

‘Dinner with Alfred. Come to class on Monday, please.’

‘I will if you will.’

Kirkland gives Gilbert a look; then he nods, with what could be a smile and what could be the threat of a grimace, and he’s gone.

Gilbert rests his forehead on the windowpane for a second or two. He wonders what it’s like being Antonio. He has no idea how Antonio survives this place. Francis is careless about hygiene but Antonio’s worse. Christ, he can smell the PE T-shirts festering in the laundry basket. He’s going to open the window.

* * *

On Saturday, Arthur finds Beilschmidt in the supermarket near school. He’s in his prefect T-shirt and yesterday’s trousers, scanning the shelves for Alfred’s favourite brand of crisps, when he spots a familiar platinum-blond head in the next aisle.

Beilschmidt doesn’t see Arthur at first. He’s too busy checking the expiry date on a carton of milk, chewing on his thumbnail, and he looks oddly human — open and comfortable. Arthur can’t remember what his first impression of Beilschmidt was, before Beilschmidt slid into a three-part whole with Antonio and Francis and you had to step aside to make room for them on the pavement. It’s hard to imagine Beilschmidt without the other two at his side. He manages quite well on his own, though. He can talk anybody’s ear off and be downright endearing about it, and he’s popular on social media because of course he is.

Arthur doesn’t know what fourth year was like for Beilschmidt. He has vague memories of Beilschmidt haunting the library at odd times of the day. Around this time last year, Beilschmidt and Héderváry fought constantly. They’re near inseparable now.

Back then, Arthur probably thought Beilschmidt looked like a tosser.

Now he selects a packet of crisps and places it in his basket, thinks for a moment, and goes over.

He says, ‘Grocery shopping?’ and Beilschmidt jumps.

‘Jesus _Christ_ you startled me, hello, what are you doing here.’

Arthur wastes a few awful seconds wondering if he’s made a mistake. But this isn’t like running into Mr Edelstein at the music store, and he’s allowed to talk to his crush, isn’t he? So he tells Beilschmidt, ‘Alfred and I are studying at the café. You’re welcome to join us. I’ve heard some good things about their coffee.’

‘I only take my coffee brewed with Red Bull instead of water.’

‘Really?’

‘No,’ says Beilschmidt, ‘I’m just fucking with you.’ Then he waggles his eyebrows. ‘Or _am I_?’ Beilschmidt’s grocery list is in the notes app on his phone; he glances at it, drops the milk carton into his basket and scrolls down. ‘Thanks. But no thanks. I’d love to, you know, grace you guys with my presence but I, I don’t like coffee, or, you know, capitalism.’

‘Right,’ Arthur says. His heart sits in his throat. ‘I’d forgotten.’

When he thinks Arthur isn’t looking, Beilschmidt’s expression has fallen into something precise and watchful. Arthur doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong.

Beilschmidt peers into Arthur’s basket. ‘Too broke for any of their food?’

‘Yeah. It’s not very good, anyway.’

‘How’s their tea?’

‘Overpriced.’

‘Yeah, I thought so. Since you’re here, you can help me pick out the cereal.’

Arthur lets Beilschmidt take his wrist and drag him into the breakfast aisle. Beilschmidt’s the casually touchy-feely sort, as tactile as he is hot-blooded. He never says _good job_ or _good luck_ — he cuffs the back of your head lightly, he squeezes your shoulder. He has to reach up to do it to his brother, who’s twice his size. Matthew eats it right up.

‘Don’t you know what brand you like?’

‘They ran out of it, last time I checked. Why are you in uniform? It’s Saturday.’

‘Prefects’ meeting, then lunch, then we study, then debate and football practice,’ Arthur recites.

‘God, that sounds boring.’

‘It is.’ He chooses a cereal at random and offers it to Beilschmidt. Beilschmidt scrunches up his nose. ‘No?’

‘Too sweet. Pick something healthy, for Ludwig.’

‘Right.’ Arthur glances over the shelves — raisin bran? Oats? — and pulls out a box of the most colourful cereal. That earns him Beilschmidt’s nod of approval. ‘What’s it like being a good younger brother?’

Beilschmidt smiles for the first time and it sets something afire beneath Arthur’s ribs. ‘Ask Matthew. He puts up with a lot.’

‘Matthew’s sixteen. He can take it.’ This is partly true. Matthew gives as good as he gets. Even Arthur loses steam after taking the piss out of Alfred for about half an hour, so he’s impressed by Matthew despite himself. After a moment he volunteers: ‘I have four brothers.’

‘Shit, that’s awesome,’ says Beilschmidt with all apparent sincerity. He picks up a loaf of bread and inspects it. ‘You’re the youngest, right?’

‘Second youngest.’

Beilschmidt, who likes children and small animals more than most teenage boys do, immediately perks up. ‘How old’s the kid? What’s he like?’

‘He’s twelve. He’s enrolling next year.’ Arthur reserves judgment on Peter’s personality, because he remembers being twelve and it wasn’t pretty and he’s trying to be a halfway decent human being nowadays. ‘I’ll probably make his life hell.’

‘Accidentally or on purpose?’

‘Accidentally-on-purpose.’

‘Oh,’ Beilschmidt says, in a tone of enormous pleasure. ‘So you’re _that_ kind of motherfucker.’

‘Was there ever any doubt?’

‘He’s a first-year and his brother’s student council president. Kirkland, he’s going to get bullied so bad.’

‘No, he’s bloody not,’ Arthur says sharply, ‘not if I have anything to say about it.’

‘That’s true.’ Very obviously and deliberately, Beilschmidt looks Arthur over. The look on Beilschmidt’s face is absurd — something like _I am so glad a single sperm out of millions fused with an ovum seventeen years ago and became you_. Arthur’s stomach turns over. ‘You’ll make people shit themselves in fear. I can’t wait.’

‘Like what you see?’

Beilschmidt nearly drops his basket. ‘You’re so small, it’s stupid.’

‘I am two centimetres shorter than you.’

‘I was talking to the bread rolls. Can you believe the prices they charge for these things? They’re fucking tiny.’

‘I don’t think Peter will appreciate me interfering,’ Arthur says, thinking it over, ‘even if I am looking out for him.’

Beilschmidt shrugs. ‘You’ll still do it anyway.’

‘Also, I nearly forgot,’ Arthur says. ‘Mind if I come round some other time to study? We didn’t get to do that yesterday.’

Several expressions flicker across Beilschmidt’s face too quickly for Arthur to understand. He’s getting better at it, though. 

‘You sure you want to?’

‘Yes?’ says Arthur, genuinely confused. ‘I want to get some work done and you’re decent company.’

A small wrinkle appears between Beilschmidt’s eyebrows and there’s tension in the line of his mouth. Arthur wants to smooth it away with his thumb. ‘Maybe you’d study better with Antonio.’

‘I’m sorry, have you _met_ Antonio?’

Abruptly Beilschmidt laughs; it’s like a dam breaking. ‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’ repeats Arthur stupidly.

‘Whenever you want. Just drop by. Text me before you come over, so you don’t walk in on me talking to birds in my boxers or some embarrassing shit like that.’

‘You talk to birds all the time. I can’t fathom how you’d find that embarrassing.’

‘I meant the boxers part. Unless, you know, the birds are the ones wearing my underwear in which case yeah, I’d pay to see that.’

Arthur smiles a bit as he turns away. ‘Alfred’ll be wondering where I am.’

Beilschmidt touches his elbow. ‘Catch you at the football match next week.’

‘Oh god,’ Arthur says. ‘Make Francis go, all right? He hates team sports but he’ll enjoy looking at sweaty blokes running around in tight shirts.’

‘What a thirsty fucker, our Francis. I’ll send him your love.’


	4. it's too cold for you here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [so let me hold both your hands in the holes of my sweater](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GCdwKhTtNNw)
> 
> thank you for your lovely comments!!! i’m going to try to update every week or at least every other week as exams are coming up

**Arthur** @excaliburn

 _Bio:_ Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way

 **birdrightsactivist** followed you

 **birdrightsactivist** @officialbeilschmidt

 _Bio:_ I WILL FACE GOD AND WALK BACKWARDS INTO HELL

* * *

_WhatsApp, 2:41pm_

**Gilbert:** i just realised

 **Gilbert:** your twitter handle is a king arthur pun

 **Gilbert:** im not even surprised at this point

 **You:** It would be @pandragon if I were actually pansexual

 **Gilbert:** nice

 **You:** Don’t bother following me, I don’t use it very often

 **Gilbert:** wait whats she talking about now

 **You:** Haha I don’t know

 **You:** I wasn’t listening either

 **Gilbert:** am i the only thing thats keeping you awake in econs

 **Gilbert:** im flattered

 **You:** You should be. Tell me a story

 **Gilbert:** FUCK. OKAY

 **Gilbert:** _typing…_

 **Gilbert:** ok so one time antonio decides its a good idea to order a massive fucking crate of tomatoes online

 **Gilbert:** bc its fucking antonio am i right

 **Gilbert:** he doesnt even warn us beforehand that therell be a shady looking delivery for antonio fernandez carriedo and francis and i dont know better

 **Gilbert:** so we open the box and BAM

 **Gilbert:** TOMATOES EVERYWHERE

 **Gilbert:** i dont even know what they were for

 **Gilbert:** THEYRE NOT EVEN FRESH TOMATOES

 **Gilbert:** _typing…_

‘Hey,’ says Alfred from his seat next to Arthur, ‘you’re smiling at your phone like an idiot.’

‘It’s nothing.’

* * *

The football match is chaotic. They’ve got good seats, because Antonio got there early and Francis said meltingly, ‘ _Pardon, pardon_ ,’ as they pushed through the gathering crowd and Gilbert said, ‘For fuck’s sake, Francis, you’re making me cry.’ Francis left ten minutes ago for a last-minute meeting with his student council teacher, and Kirkland’s off getting drinks with Kiku. But Francis did ditch the dance rehearsal, in the end, to crowd the bench with them and steal Kirkland’s chips, his mouth wide and winter-dry and smiling above the folds of his scarf. Kirkland looks at Francis with a mixture of envy and exasperation, and doesn’t look at Antonio at all. Gilbert’s been thoroughly enjoying the sight of Francis losing his shit over the opposing team’s midfielder.

(‘Will you _look at his face_ ,’ Francis said furiously, gripping Kirkland’s wrist with his long elegant fingers. ‘I want to _sit on it_.’

‘Thank you for your input, Francis,’ Kirkland said, turning bright red. But he didn’t wrench his hand away.)

But now Francis and Kirkland are gone and Gilbert feels a familiar, unreasonable pang when he thinks of them partnered like the names of a law firm above the door: Kirkland & Bonnefoy. Héderváry & Łukasiewicz. Jones & Williams. It’s stupid and he shouldn’t feel this way. He’s got Antonio, after all. Antonio isn’t particularly concerned about their school team’s performance — ‘I’m not captain any more!’ was the first thing he said when they sat down. Antonio’s just here for the ride, and he cheers and curses with equal enthusiasm, which is… which is a pretty good summary of Antonio in general, yeah.

‘Where do you think I’d be?’ Gilbert asks Antonio. The benches are striped in school colours and the air’s ripe with high feeling, mostly from the second- and third-years, who still have enough life in them to care about these things so close to finals. Antonio’s eyes are feverishly bright and the wind rakes through his dark hair. ‘If I’d taken extracurriculars?’

‘Running track,’ Antonio answers promptly, craning his neck to peer over the heads of people in front of them. ‘President of the nature and animals club. Or you could join dance, like Francis and that Cuban guy in your class. Carlos? Carlos something? Or! Or! I think the history club organises field trips to a lot of war museums. You’d like that.’

Gilbert laughs. ‘Antonio, really?’

‘You like so many things, how do you expect me to choose?’

‘Antonio, you’re the best,’ says Gilbert on impulse. ‘It’s so noisy no one’s going to hear us, so I can spout as much sentimental bullshit as I want. I love you, man. Totally platonically.’

‘No homo,’ says Antonio at once, in their old call-and-response routine. It’s an automatic reflex by now. ‘But… no, I think…’

‘Yeah, maybe a little homo.’ Gilbert pinches his fingers together. ‘Like a pinch of salt. This much homo.’

‘A reasonable amount of — shit!’ Antonio breaks off to cup his hands over his mouth and shout, ‘ _Me cago en tu puta madre!_ ’

‘Antonio, Jesus Christ!’

Antonio smacks him. Antonio’s a lot stronger than he looks and Gilbert nearly falls over. ‘Don’t blaspheme, you fucking heathen. Jesus shit Mary fuck!’

Gilbert buries his head in his hands. ‘Antonio, you’re a fucking gift, I swear to god.’

‘I never swore this much in English until I met Lovino,’ Antonio says. Gilbert gives him a sharp look, but he’s engrossed in the game. ‘Don’t tell him I said that. He’ll get offended.’

‘ _I’ll_ date you,’ Gilbert tells him. ‘I bet you I’m a better lay than Vargas will ever be. Come on, man, give it a shot. You won’t know until you try.’

‘Okay!’ says Antonio, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees. He’s only half-listening to Gilbert. Antonio has a touchable, leisurely look: tousled hair and round cheeks, that eternal sun-warmed smile. The end of his scarf flaps crazily in the wind. ‘You want to take me out to dinner first, or get right down to business?’

‘Shit, I can’t decide. I’m a task-oriented kind of guy. But I still want to treat you right, you know?’

‘I don’t know if I can do commitment, man.’

‘Are you saying you don’t want a boyfriend?’ Gilbert claps a hand over his heart. ‘Antonio! You! I’m shocked.’

‘It’s so hard,’ Antonio says plaintively. ‘Do I have to, like, feed it, and take it for walks, and pay attention to it sometimes?’

‘Oh, fuck, I think you do.’

Antonio shudders. ‘Yeah, I’m not ready for that.’

‘Don’t worry. We’ll get you a turtle instead. It’s less high-maintenance and a lot more worth it.’

The corners of Antonio’s eyes crinkle. ‘Remember when we thought you were straight?’

‘Don’t remind me. Those were dark times.’

Just then Alfred Jones scores a decent goal, and Antonio jumps to his feet as their side of the field erupts into cheering. Gilbert claps his shoulder when he falls back onto the bench, his face flushed in triumph. Antonio only has four modes — sleepy, just-woke-up, about-to-fall-asleep, and like this: loose-limbed and humming with frenetic energy. He’s all teeth. It’s impossible to take your eyes off him.

‘If they actually win this thing, you better get over there and take a photo with the team. All your yelling and cursing finally got through. They should thank you on their knees.’

‘You should join one of those weekend clubs,’ Antonio says in response, which is the kind of answer Gilbert usually gets whenever he and Antonio have a conversation.

‘What, a book club? With old ladies? _Knitting?_ ’

‘Old people love you! And you can learn to knit. Arthur can knit.’ Antonio shades his eyes with his hand. ‘It’s something to do. It’ll get you out of your own head once in a while. At any rate, you have to admit it’s better than writing German poetry on the backs of your physics papers.’

‘That wasn’t even me,’ says Gilbert indignantly. ‘That was my brother. Don’t make fun of me for shit I didn’t do.’

‘Wait, are you serious?’

‘Ludwig was an angsty teen. It’s one of my most formative childhood experiences.’

He doesn’t remember what Antonio says to that, because their school ends up winning the match after all. Antonio gets dragged off, laughing, after somebody on the football team spots him and yells, ‘O captain, my captain!’ Jones’ blond head stands out like the sun in the middle of their group hug, and you can still pick out his distinctive American voice amid all the whooping. Which reminds Gilbert that he hasn’t seen Kirkland in a while.

Antonio doesn’t really belong on his football team the way he belongs with Francis and Gilbert — at least, he doesn’t care about his teammates beyond the casual Instagram group shots, the back-slapping in the corridors. Antonio likes everyone and no one. Gilbert’s never had any kind of team in the first place. He drifts away from the uproar of the benches.

The crowd’s already starting to melt away, in any case. Most people are here because they have friends on the football team and the match is being held on campus. Swinging his bag over his shoulder, Gilbert wanders towards the science labs. The science and research building has bathrooms closest to the football field, so there’s a steady stream of people coming in and out. There are plenty of people milling around the herb gardens, from fifth-years and seniors smoking under the trees to groups of kids drinking coffee on the granite steps. Kirkland could very well be among them. Gilbert’s winding his way between the stone benches, stepping over a couple of guys from the other school, when his phone vibrates and he unlocks it to see a text from Kiku.

* * *

_SMS, 4:09pm_

**Kiku:** Gilbert are you with Arthur?

 **You:** no

 **You:** why?

 **You:** i thought you were

 **You:** did you lose him

 **Kiku:** Yes, and I have to rush off

 **Kiku:** I have newspaper club meeting now

 **Kiku:** ੨( ･᷄ ︵･᷅ )ｼ

 **You:** dont worry ill find him for you

 **Kiku:** Thank you!!

 **You:** ill tell him you were looking for him

* * *

Beilschmidt doesn’t touch him — sits up on the countertop instead. Arthur’s heartbeat drives hot blood into his ears for a scorching moment, all humiliation, and then he swallows it and turns to face the universe.

Beilschmidt is oddly elegant, in the sense that every movement is deliberate. He’s still looking at the empty cubicle behind them when Arthur finishes rinsing out his mouth. Arthur spits: once, twice, coughs into the brittle silence.

‘Hello.’

‘Yeah.’

Arthur’s throat is wet and acidic. He’s tasted worse. He washes his hands, turns off the tap, turns away from the sharp, glassy eyes of his own reflection and to Beilschmidt’s hawklike profile.

Beilschmidt is the sort of person with no resting face; his expressions are works of art. He’s a little like Dr Vargas in that way. He talks with his hands, demonstrates things by standing on tables. He can convey pained resignation in a glance and contempt with a gesture. It’s one of Arthur’s favourite qualities in him. But now he holds himself perfectly still, watching Arthur with the dispassionate calm of an animal eyeing its prey.

‘Want me to tell Kiku you’re here?’

Arthur got separated from Kiku in the crowd half an hour ago, and Kiku wasn’t picking up his phone. He doesn’t like to think about the irrational dread that wound itself round his throat, then. He’s seventeen years too old for this. Arthur says, ‘No.’

He winces at the sound of his own voice. It’s hot and ragged, and the line of Beilschmidt’s mouth is a little bitter. Thankfully, Beilschmidt pretends not to notice.

‘Did you need to use the bathroom?’

Beilschmidt plays along. ‘Nope. Saw Braginsky heading this way and wanted to hide, that’s all.’

Arthur wonders when people will realise that Gilbert Beilschmidt’s legendary temper isn’t much of a temper at all — he’s easygoing at heart, demanding but somehow tolerant, a collection of precisely chosen likes and dislikes. The third-floor bathroom’s stayed empty throughout the football match because there was plenty of room on the second and first floors, which is why Arthur chose it. Still, the match is long over by now, and it’s surprising that he’s had the bathroom to himself all this time.

He voices this.

‘I’ve been outside for a while,’ says Beilschmidt.

Oh. There’s that, then.

Beilschmidt isn’t the worst possible person who could’ve walked in on him. Alfred has never seen him like this, and Arthur doesn’t intend to ever let there be a first time. He breathes. Beilschmidt lets Arthur have a hint of a crooked smile, imperfect and lovely.

‘You going home?’

‘No, I have training at six-thirty.’ Arthur wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He tries not to look at the hollowness of his face in the mirror. He barely recognises himself on the best of days, and he’s hideously raw next to Beilschmidt’s cool high-boned grace, the long curve of Beilschmidt’s throat as savage as a knife. Arthur is so tired he can hardly think.

‘If you skipped debate just this once, I bet Elizabeta would cover for you.’

Arthur fishes a pack of mints out of his bag and pops one into his mouth. ‘She might, but she shouldn’t have to.’

Beilschmidt says, ‘You know, it’s okay to ask people to do nice things for you once in a while.’

Arthur is still dizzy, so he lets the unexpected rush of gratitude — confusion, fear? — nearly capsize him for a moment. The thought of food is nauseating, but he doesn’t want Beilschmidt to leave just yet. So he asks, ‘Do you want to go get something to eat?’

‘Sure.’ Beilschmidt slides off the counter with a kind of feral effortlessness. ‘Dining hall or café? Or we can go into town. I don’t have anything else to do.’

‘Outside school, then.’

Beilschmidt follows Arthur out into the empty hallway. Setting one foot in front of the other throws up little eddies of dust, confetti-pale in the sunlight slicing into the broad corridors. They tend to take their campus for granted; you can easily forget how much _space_ there is. It reeks of two hundred years of alumni donations. It’s the little details that stick with Arthur, like how the central heating stops working in the middle of winter or the oak floorboards creak under too many pairs of shoes after assemblies. He feels lightheaded. His footsteps are alien to himself.

‘Do I smell?’ he asks when they’re in the open air, taking the shortcut past the tennis courts to the nearest bus stop.

Beilschmidt understands at once. ‘No. It’s so cold outside nobody’s going to smell vomit unless they’re right up in your face.’ He pulls the hood of his jacket up over his face. ‘That’s what the mints are really for, aren’t they?’

‘Partly, yes.’ Arthur blows on his fingers. His eyes sting from the wind. ‘Think it’s going to snow?’

Beilschmidt looks up at the grey sky and sticks his tongue out nonsensically. ‘Yeah. By tomorrow, I bet. See, your nose is all pink.’

Arthur’s mouth feels swollen and feverish. They slip out through the side gate, Beilschmidt crossing his arms over his chest for warmth. Arthur considers the possibility that he might actually, physically be sick — that’s been a long time coming, with the hours he keeps. Well, it doesn’t matter. Even on the off-chance that he really is ill, it’s not like he intends to go to the doctor.

‘You haven’t had lunch?’ asks Beilschmidt.

‘No, I had a student council meeting during break today.’

‘Okay. When’s the last time you ate?’

Beilschmidt knows him better than Arthur would’ve guessed. ‘I had lunch with Kiku yesterday.’

‘Jesus, Kirkland, you’re going to kill yourself.’

‘I’ve lived this long. Also, it’s Arthur now.’ There are only a few other students at the bus stop, and Arthur doesn’t know them. He scans the list of bus services on the board. ‘Where are we headed?’

Gilbert’s scrolling through his phone. ‘Depends on what you like. There’s that burger place everyone goes to. Francis hates it, though. I mean, he’s not wrong, it is pretty bad.’

‘Alfred eats at McDonald’s at least once a week. I’ve got less exclusive tastes than Francis. It’s in the shopping centre, right?’

‘Yeah. We can go watch a movie if you want.’

‘Not enough time before debate training.’ Arthur isn’t careless with his words; he knows exactly what he’s about to say before he says it. ‘Some other time.’

He’s painfully alert, in a bright empty way. His head hurts and he is very aware of the hot, small parts of himself: the lines on his chapped palms, the raw burn of his throat. He wants a drink. He wants a smoke. He doesn’t want to go for training, but he doesn’t want to go home either — the thought of his sleepless room and the blankets kicked to the foot of his bed, the teacup wilting on his desk, the music player still open on his laptop and halfway through a song, makes him want to throw up all over again.

On the bus, Gilbert says: ‘Okay, talk to me. What’s going on?’

He can speak frankly to Gilbert; he _has_ to, because nothing gets past Gilbert’s bullshit detector. It’s almost relaxing.

‘I’m breaking it off with Antonio,’ Arthur says.

Gilbert grabs hold of his bag as the bus lurches to the left. ‘Jesus Christ.’

Arthur says nothing. He’s a little ashamed of himself. He doesn’t have any real problems. There’s only Arthur, and there is so much of him, knocking about his insides.

‘Why?’

It takes Arthur a second to realise what Gilbert’s asking.

‘Well. Not that I ever minded being a distraction from Vargas, just to be clear, but —’

He stops at the look on Gilbert’s face.

‘You’re not just the distraction.’

‘Thank you, but no. I don’t care about that. I’m just not going to do the same thing to Antonio in return, that’s all.’

That’s his strength, you see. Arthur _doesn’t care_. He’s beginning to think he may be incapable of ever feeling anything about other people. Even if he were having a hard time in school (which is unlikely — Arthur has no illusions about himself, but he does know he isn’t some kind of social pariah either), he isn’t sure it would affect him very much. Arthur can take a lot. He keeps himself separate and guarded out of choice rather than necessity, self-sufficient, safe. He is an island. He is untouchable.

‘Well, shit.’ Gilbert shifts in his seat, their elbows brushing. ‘Have you told him yet?’

‘No.’

‘I texted him, by the way. Had to let him know I’m going off with you, so he wouldn’t be confused when he got back.’

Arthur nods, and knows his nod comes a little too late. He still feels strange — superimposed on the world, a blurred puzzle piece sliding out of place — and he’s got to consciously keep himself from staring. Beilschmidt’s features are pleasing in a narrow, pristine way, all cheekbones and harsh jaw and deep-coloured eyes glinting with a ferocious intelligence. Arthur is so tired he thinks it must be written all over him on the outside, his ugly hunger and his gnawing want: _love me, unloveable as I am, make me loveable, make me whole_.

‘I thought you would. That’s fine.’

‘You shouldn’t be telling me all this before Antonio.’

‘You’d have found out eventually.’

‘Then…’ says Gilbert, a little reluctantly. ‘That time in the dorm?’

‘Yeah, that’ll be the last time.’

He doesn’t think he has the energy to care about someone the way Antonio cares. Hopeless and hopeful. Arthur has his selfishness and his empty silences, the broken ends of his past friendships, his talent for giving head. All this on offer and it’s a poor dowry. Gilbert deserves a proper crush, complete with good old-fashioned pining. Arthur’s all out of willpower and sympathetic personality traits.

It’s Gilbert who breaks the silence. ‘So you like someone else? Is that it?’

‘Yeah.’

Gilbert whistles. ‘Awesome. What’s he like? Is he nice?’

‘In general? No. To his friends, very.’

‘Cooler than me?’

‘That’s not much.’

Gilbert laughs, but he’s looking out of the window; he doesn’t meet Arthur’s eyes. The bus rattles every time it hits a bump in the road and their knees knock against each other. Gilbert’s bag is wedged between them. The streets are quiet, though that’s normal for this time on a school day — just a few people walking their dogs and two university girls kissing beside a traffic light. Arthur hasn’t been home before seven in what feels like forever. He’s not used to seeing the town like this, half-awake and discoloured under a drowsy sky.

When they reach the shopping centre, it’s ruddy and dry as a wood stove, and Gilbert gives Arthur a light push through the glass doors of the burger joint. Arthur does not like being herded (as Alfred’s found out the hard way) but he permits it just this once. Gilbert’s palm is warm and steady between his shoulderblades.

‘Tea? Cream and sugar?’

‘Actually,’ Arthur says, ‘get me a Coke. Just to change things up. Thank you.’

They’ve managed to get a booth, since the place is practically empty. It’s mostly patronised by students from their school and the Catholic girls’ school opposite, which says a lot about the quality of the food or lack thereof. Arthur doesn’t mind. He usually ends up taking Francis’ leftovers off his hands, since Arthur eats anything and nothing is up to Francis’ standards. Gilbert, who is gentlemanly in a competent no-nonsense way, goes off to order for them both without being asked.

‘The girl at the counter couldn’t figure out how old I am,’ says Gilbert, setting down their drinks and the self-service buzzer on the table between them. He slides into the seat and grins at Arthur. ‘She kept looking at me like she couldn’t tell if I’m seventeen or seventy. I like to think it’s my maturity, or, you know, the fact that I am devastatingly fucking handsome, but turns out it’s always just the hair. God, what a disappointing world we live in.’

‘Devastating is right. How much did it cost?’

‘Look at him, being all charming and shit. Listen, you look like you’re about to drop dead, so I’m buying you lunch today. You can treat me next time.’

Arthur tucks his wallet back into the pocket of his trousers. He says: ‘All right. Next time.’

‘You come here often? With Jones?’

‘Not really. We get takeaway more often than not, when we stay late in school.’

‘Prefect stuff, huh? Or debate?’

‘Both. Debate tends to drag on and the football team’s usually the last to leave school.’ Arthur takes a long swallow of his Coke and rubs his eyes as he waits for the caffeine to settle into his bones. ‘I hear they’re thinking of starting a bird-watching club. You could join next year.’

‘Not a chance,’ says Gilbert, entirely too casual. ‘The seniors step down in, like, May, right? What’s the point? And that’s if I even make it to senior year.’

Arthur bites his tongue. ‘You will.’

‘Besides, it sounds like the start of an urban legend.’ Gilbert does a clickbait-article-headline voice: ‘Teens wander too far into the woods at night! You’ll never believe what they found!’

‘You can’t see birds in the dark, at any rate.’

‘Don’t question it, Arthur, it’s horror movie logic. Were you always in debate? I know Elizabeta wasn’t. She was on the swim team and she transferred in second year and now she’s president, the talented fucker.’

‘I got into debate in first year, yes. I was on the school newspaper for a while too, but I had to quit when they put me on the competitive debate team.’ Arthur’s about to continue when the buzzer goes off, and he gets up and goes to the counter to collect their food. When he comes back with their trays he adds, ‘They’ll probably make Elise Zwingli chief editor next year. She’s very good.’

‘I bet she is,’ replies Gilbert with a hint of pride. He unwraps his burger and promptly tears into it. ‘Want some fries?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘I could probably have signed up for a lot of things in third year. My grades were still kind of okay back then. But I never got around to it.’

The burger isn’t too bad, though Arthur can see why Francis refuses to put up with the greasy flavour and suspicious texture of the meat. He squeezes a generous amount of ketchup and mustard onto it to disguise the taste. Kiku looks faintly nauseated whenever Arthur does something disagreeable related to food; Alfred says _dude, that’s fucking disgusting_ and does the exact same thing half a second later. Gilbert doesn’t even bat an eyelid.

‘Your grades can’t be too bad now if you haven’t lost your scholarship.’

Gilbert chokes on his juice.

‘What?’ Arthur says, bile rising in his throat.

Gilbert pulls off derision like nobody else can — he’s amused but matter-of-fact. ‘I’m not here on a scholarship, genius. I’m on financial aid. There’s a difference.’

Arthur forces himself to take a deep breath. It’s the caffeine messing with him, that’s all. It’s very difficult to offend Gilbert. Gilbert glances up from under his eyelashes and hands Arthur a French fry.

Arthur isn’t sure how that is supposed to help, but he eats it anyway. He appreciates the gesture. ‘Well, you passed the admissions test.’

‘Only test I’ve aced since I came here. Moving schools and countries for Ludwig was a shit idea. Fuck, did I just say that? There, I said it. That felt good. But would I do it again for Ludwig? Yeah, every time. What a sucker I am.’

‘I didn’t know you in third year.’

‘Count yourself lucky.’

Arthur smiles. ‘What were you like?’

‘So deep in the closet I found fucking Narnia.’

‘We’ve all been there,’ Arthur says, sipping more Coke although he knows it’ll double his stress levels in ten minutes or so. He’s never been one for making good decisions. ‘And was there a special bloke who made you realise —’

‘Yes,’ says Gilbert.

‘Do I know him?’

‘Yeah, you do.’ Gilbert’s watching Arthur closely, a smile curling at the corners of his sharp mouth. He’s as canny as a fencing master. ‘Don’t try to guess.’

‘You could just tell me.’

‘You wouldn’t believe me.’

‘I’d believe anything you told me.’

‘Really?’

‘No, I wouldn’t.’

‘Ivan Braginsky.’

Arthur says, ‘What the fuck?’

Gilbert drops his burger onto the tray and puts his face in his hands.

‘No,’ says Arthur. ‘You’re not serious. Christ. You bloody are, aren’t you? But _why_?’

‘I thought he was so great, I shit you not. I can’t look him in the eye any more.’

‘And has your taste changed since then? What is your type, anyway?’

Gilbert licks his fingers and then, apparently remembering his manners, wipes them on the napkin instead. He doesn’t look at Arthur. ‘I don’t know. Feisty.’

“Feisty” is not a word Arthur would use to describe Braginsky — more like “makes everyone around him piss themselves in fear” — but then again, Gilbert’s always had more balls than most. Arthur stirs the remainder of his Coke pointlessly for a moment, then pushes it across the table.

‘Do you want the rest of this? I can’t finish it.’

‘Sure.’ Gilbert takes the cup from Arthur and makes deliberate slurping noises as he sucks on the straw. ‘I never used to drink soft drinks when I was a kid, you know. Back in Germany. It was all… shit, I don’t know, orange juice and cocoa and… yoghurt and muesli, and, like, _marmalade_. I’m pretty sure I brought packed lunches to school. It was more 1950s than the real fifties, I’m telling you. I’m coming home from school and the front door’s open and Ludwig’s like —’ He deepens his voice. ‘— you are the most beautiful dog in the whole world! And you! And also you!’

Arthur’s never heard Gilbert talk so much about his life before coming here. ‘Tell me about your dogs.’

‘Their names are Blackie, Berlitz and Aster. They’re getting old. I hope they don’t die while we’re over here. Ludwig would cry. _I_ would cry.’

‘I think I’d like a dog,’ says Arthur thoughtfully. He hasn’t had much interaction with animals for a long time. The last he remembers is skipping civics class as a second-year to eat hot dogs in the basement carpark with Francis and Antonio, while the school cats prowled lazily about, rubbing up against their ankles. Francis is a cat person, and Antonio likes anything that’s cute, and Arthur likes anything that likes him back.

‘Let’s go out and adopt one. We can share.’ Gilbert pulls out his phone. He’s got a whole album dedicated to photos of his dogs. ‘See, here’s Feli making friends with Aster.’

‘Dr Vargas flew to Germany to visit you?’

‘Yeah, just once. This was last year. Ever been to New York? To visit Matthew and Jones’ mother?’

‘No, never. But I’ve been to their grandparents’ place in Toronto.’

Alfred and Matthew are curiously open and young, with the kind of Christmas-special brotherhood that thrives on snow days and camping trips, whole in a way Arthur will never understand. They’re boys with a capital B. He meets them at the airport, always, when they come in on their separate flights — Alfred skidding into the arrival lounge with some stupid one-liner, something like _the eagle has landed_ , and Matthew going, _your eagle can suck my dick, Al, here’re some doughnuts_.

‘Their father lives quite close to me,’ Arthur says.

‘Yeah, I know. What’s it like in that big house of theirs?’

Arthur thinks for a moment. ‘There are only two house rules you need to know. It’s quite simple. Don’t piss off Matthew, and don’t let Alfred cook hamburgers on Sundays.’

‘I’ve never seen Matthew pissed off.’

‘Oh,’ says Arthur with feeling. ‘You’ve been spared. Keep it that way.’

‘Is he more passive-aggressive than usual, or —’

‘You don’t want to know, believe me.’

‘Wish you didn’t have debate training,’ Gilbert says suddenly. ‘I could take you to the dorm again. You could nap for as long as you want. I’d hide you under my bed. No one would ever find you.’

‘Did you just explain how you’re going to kidnap me and stash my corpse in your bedroom?’

‘I didn’t say I would _kill_ you, did I?’ Gilbert gets up, absent-mindedly brushing crumbs into his napkin. Arthur loves him fiercely, then. ‘Let’s go. We can make it back in time if we catch the next bus.’

‘Are you heading back to school too?’

Gilbert shrugs. ‘Sure, why not.’ He jerks his chin at the windowpane. ‘Look, it’s snowing.’

A light dusting of snowflakes settles on their shoulders as they hurry to the bus stop. By tomorrow afternoon it’ll be thick on the ground and the roof of the gymnasium, trampled into mud by people crossing the quadrangle between lectures. He’s shivering and the inside of his mouth tastes like grease and it is very nearly magical. He wants nothing more than to take Gilbert’s hand in the falling snow, cliché of clichés.

‘You cold?’

‘It’s fine. The inside of the bus will be warmer.’

‘You can take my hoodie.’

‘No, thank you.’ Arthur keeps his eyes down; he doesn’t trust himself. The snow is barely visible against Gilbert’s hair but it washes most of the colour from his skin. ‘Has anyone ever told you you’d make a good vampire?’

‘Lots of times. And I tell them I’d be an even better vampire hunter.’ Safe in the shelter of the bus stop, Gilbert makes a stabbing motion with his left hand. ‘Catacombs! Castles! You want to run away with me? We’ll go backpacking across Eastern Europe and fight the undead.’

‘I’m not like you. I don’t enjoy fighting so much as I enjoy winning.’

‘Didn’t you break up the fight behind the squash courts last month?’

‘No, that was Alfred. He’s very good at finishing other people’s fights,’ says Arthur blandly. ‘That’s why I keep him around, you know. It’s all he’s good for, besides kicking me awake in class every five minutes.’

‘You’re joking, right?’

‘About my energy levels or the basis of my five-year-long friendship?’

‘The first one. I get the second one.’ Gilbert bares his teeth. ‘You’ve got to _sleep_ sometime, Arthur.’

‘You’re one to talk.’

‘I’m always tired because I sleep too much. Do you ever get people thinking you and Jones are dating?’

‘Oh god,’ Arthur says. ‘No. Yes. Well, yes, I think people wonder. But they don’t dare to ask me about it. Can you imagine? “Dude, we’re holding hands, that’s a little gay.” “I am literally your boyfriend.” “Yeah, don’t you think it’s a little bit gay?”’

‘Arthur,’ Gilbert says, ‘stop trying to do the accent, _oh my god_.’

* * *

_WhatsApp, 9:52pm_

**Antonio:** hey!!!

 **Antonio:** how was your day?

 **Antonio:** are you ok?

 **You:** Yes, thank you

* * *

_iMessage, 9:58pm_

**You:** Why do people ask other people if they’re ok

 **You:** It’s such a bloody pointless question

 **Francis:** I know what you mean

 **You:** There is only one socially acceptable answer, which is ‘I’m fine, thanks for asking’

 **You:** ???

 **Francis:** They ask it because they don’t know what else to say

 **Francis:** They don’t really expect an honest answer

* * *

_WhatsApp, 10:02pm_

**You:** francis i rly need to ask

 **Francis:** Yes go ahead

 **You:** do antonio and arthur actually give a shit about each other

 **Francis:** Oh my god

 **You:** bc i cant tell and im really confused

 **Francis:** I think they do???

 **Francis:** Under the surface they are quite similar in their way of thinking

 **You:** like what

 **Francis:** For example:

 **Francis:** 1) Sex is just sex

 **You:** does antonio care about arthur

 **Francis:** 2) They don’t take conflict personally

 **Francis:** 3) Even though they’re both frankly very sensitive

 **Francis:** Antonio cares, in his way

 **You:** but arthur doesnt

 **You:** ?

 **Francis:** Arthur cares!

 **Francis:** He cares a lot!!

 **You:** but i mean

 **Francis:** What you see is just Arthur’s defense mechanism!

 **You:** theres got to be a friends part in friends with benefits right

 **Francis:** Oh yes

 **Francis:** That’s just the way they are

* * *

‘What would you do,’ Arthur asks Kiku, ‘if you realised you might be getting soft on somebody who already had a crush on you?’

Kiku pauses in the middle of folding up their shared umbrella. ‘Excuse me?’

Arthur takes the umbrella from Kiku and shakes out the raindrops. He likes their contemplative silences; he likes how, with Kiku, he can take as long as he wants to think. ‘Would you take it seriously or think it was just an ego stroke? Feeling flattered?’

Kiku blinks at him slowly, considering the question.

‘This is a hypothetical situation?’

‘Of course.’

‘Ah,’ says Kiku. ‘Well, I wouldn’t know. I’m sorry. I have never been in the situation you speak of and my imagination fails me.’

‘That’s all right.’ A bus zips past them, rain shattering on its windows; it snowed again last night and the roads have turned to slush. Arthur prefers the train, but he’s taken the bus with Kiku since they were first-years. He doesn’t mind spending an extra twenty minutes getting home on the days their classes end around the same time. Next to him, Kiku makes a small _hmm_ noise, looks down at the puddles seeping into his shoes, shoots Arthur a curious glance.

Arthur’s whole persona is based on being sure of himself and doing a good job of pretending to be when he isn’t. His sexuality is one of the only real solid things about him. He doesn’t remember much, only vague hints of noticing the edge of somebody’s smile, somebody’s rough-knuckled hands, his Danish neighbour when he was fourteen. There wasn’t much of a coming-out. There wasn’t much of a closet. His teenage years have been running short on surprises.

Well. Here’s one, though it dawned so slowly that he’s had time to accept it. He’s still getting used to the idea that Gilbert Beilschmidt — out of his many acquaintances, his few fierce and loving friends — chose Arthur with Arthur’s bad luck and bad manners, his greedy insecurities, his arrogance.

‘This person,’ Kiku says. ‘Do I know them?’

‘For the sake of our imaginations, let’s say you do.’

‘I see.’

‘Hypothetically.’

‘Yes,’ says Kiku. ‘Well. Hypothetically, if I were developing feelings for a person, I would need to know who they were. That is very helpful.’

‘It seems logical.’

Neither of them are the physical sort (Kiku still looks to Arthur in panic whenever Alfred goes in for a hug, and Arthur looks back at him like _well I can’t help you_ ), but that means they’ve gotten good at reading each other’s minute expressions. He sees Kiku hide a smile.

‘It’s okay to feel flattered. It is quite normal.’

‘Not very nice, surely.’

Kiku expertly chokes down the fully justified _since when have_ you _cared about being nice?_ ‘Since this is a serious question —’

‘Oh dear, really?’

‘You sound serious.’

‘Bloody hell,’ says Arthur.

‘I think,’ Kiku continues, ‘I would ask myself how well I knew this person. Then I would know whether I liked them for themselves, or just the fact that they liked me.’

Arthur does something he never does because it is a very flustered sort of action, and he is not flustered. He runs a hand through his hair and thoroughly messes it up. This does not make him feel better. A drop of rainwater slides down his nose.

Kiku looks him over critically. ‘You’re sticking up everywhere.’

‘That’s not possible. I use this fantastic hair gel.’

Kiku is unfailingly interested in cosmetic products. He brightens. ‘What’s it called?’

‘It’s the fucking rain!’

‘Arthur?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Don’t you have anyone else you can ask about hypothetical feelings?’

‘Fair point,’ says Arthur, and they don’t say anything else until the bus comes.

* * *

_WhatsApp, 11:40pm_

**Arthur:** I’m looking for this song because Alfred cried watching the music video

 **Arthur:** But I forgot what it’s called

 **Arthur:** I’ve been searching variations on ‘the song about the bloke with the face’ on YouTube for the past 10 min

 **Arthur:** It isn’t really helping

 **You:** lmao youre thinking of all i want by kodaline

 **Arthur:** THANK YOU

 **You:** go to sleep you loser

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arthur is the kind of person who Does Not Like social media but gets a bunch of likes every time he emerges from the void to roast people in the comments section on alfred’s facebook posts. matthew is even more brutal but nobody notices. francis and alfred probably have ~*~aesthetic~*~ popular kid instagram accounts and as for gilbert please check out [@actual_prussia](https://twitter.com/actual_prussia) which is the greatest twitter account to ever exist


	5. bend me, break me, any way you need me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from [i think i’m paranoid by garbage](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ypr18UmxOas)
> 
> warning for brief descriptions of mild dissociation in this chapter, also the hint matthew drops about the underage thing is meant to be skeevy, it’ll be addressed later on ([this](http://firebend.tumblr.com/post/140055659160) is gilbert and matthew’s friendship ngl)

It’s a pretty bad week. Alfred Jones, the only person who can make Arthur smile on a regular basis, disappears for three days for a series of football matches off campus, and the afternoons thin out into negative space. Gilbert oversleeps twice, turns up for lectures he has no memory of afterwards, and does a lot of stupid things. He manages to get his homework done for once, and it turns out to be for the wrong tutorial. He forgets half his morning routine: he has to ask Elizabeta if she thinks he’s brushed his teeth, and she looks at him like he’s crazy.

He’s not. He’s just tired. Not physically tired since he’s been getting a full six hours, but this familiar tiredness deep in the marrow of his bones, so his thoughts string together like beads. Dull tired. Old tired. Less than two weeks into his new study-like-you-mean-it routine, and he’s about to burn out. Fucking unbelievable. Finals are getting closer by the minute and Francis has his exam timetable taped to the wall, his thermos flask of coffee eternally steaming. Antonio and Gilbert flee after two days.

Gilbert would keep his distance from Francis if he had any sense of self-preservation, because Francis is radiating stress and cigarette smoke all the time now. He doesn’t. It’s Francis.

So he goes for the dance concert. He doesn’t remember most of it. He wishes he knew what was wrong with him. Well, he does, but things tend to go south for Gilbert around this time every year, which is getting _boring_. The hallway’s glistening and loud and Francis slinks along between Gilbert and Antonio, hands sleekly coiled in the pockets of his dark jeans, all gaunt and feline. Conversation’s stilted now that the finals marathon is in full swing. Gilbert manages to pull off the astonishing feat of falling asleep twice during the concert. Jesus Christ.

Antonio doesn’t notice. Francis does, of course, and spends the rest of the concert leaning against Gilbert’s shoulder and pointing out the dancers who are better than others. Gilbert doesn’t need Francis to tell him that — he has eyes — but he goes along with it, trying to be less irritable than usual, for Francis’ sake. Nearly everything these days is getting on his nerves. Throughout the concert, Antonio’s knee keeps knocking against Gilbert’s and Gilbert has to physically restrain himself from snapping at Antonio. See, this is the real reason he doesn’t have many friends. He knows Francis is going to pick up on Gilbert’s shitty mood sooner or later and he hopes Francis isn’t offended. He doesn’t need to alienate Francis, too, on top of everyone else. Francis is touchy when it comes to Gilbert, though he hides it well.

Gilbert keeps his cool. He keeps his head down. The school auditorium’s nearly full; Francis’ juniors have done a good job of selling tickets. Antonio’s been sleeping through most of his lectures and Francis’ voice is scratchy from all that late-night chain-smoking. Gilbert focuses on anything but the itch under his skin, in his skull — the mid-concert performance by Elizabeta’s band and Elizabeta’s voice, with her guitar all confident, and Arthur flushed and feverish and happy, doing a wickedly accurate impression of Alex Turner into the microphone without having to try very hard and laughing at himself. Just a little.

Elizabeta does most of the talking onstage. Arthur doesn’t particularly like public speaking — says he gets to do more than his fair share of it and he’s pretty much sick of it by now. But he loves music, loves the adrenaline rush, and it’s nice to watch him. It’s nice to know that about someone, when everything else in Gilbert’s life right now feels lopsided.

After the concert Gilbert heads backstage, since he’s gotten separated from the others and Francis probably wants to say hi to his juniors. There’s the usual press of people at the doors, in the hallway outside: taking group photos and selling popcorn and prefects doubling as bouncers, dancers getting flowers from their friends. Gilbert runs into half his classmates. He cuts through the crowd easily, squeezing past dancers half-dressed and wiping off their makeup, glitter sticking to their skin. Nobody minds him being there. They’re too busy to see him at all. There’s a lot of yelling going on.

Elizabeta’s gone off somewhere but the rest of the band is still backstage, packing up. Natalya Arlovskaya gives him an icy, assessing glance and Gilbert lifts his chin in salute.

Arthur’s down on his hands and knees, strapping his guitar down in its case. He looks up when he hears Gilbert’s footsteps, then scrambles to his feet. His eyes are very bright and his cheeks are pink. ‘Hello.’

‘Hey,’ Gilbert says. ‘You were good just now.’

‘I am so tired,’ Arthur says, and pitches forward. Before Gilbert can register it he’s pressing his forehead into Gilbert’s shoulder and his bony, guitar-calloused fingers are curling over the hem of Gilbert’s T-shirt. Carlos Machados pushes past them, snorting. ‘Take me out of here.’

Gilbert’s head feels distant and flat. Arthur’s very close. ‘You want a ride?’

Arthur raises his head with a quizzical sort of smile, his eyes unfocused. It’s cold in the auditorium seats and absolutely sweltering backstage. Arthur’s tattered shirt clings to his back. He stinks of cheap beer. ‘You don’t have a car.’

‘I said,’ Gilbert waggles his eyebrows, ‘you want _a ride_?’

He doesn’t hear Arthur laugh. Somebody bumps into them both, just then, and Arthur hisses and catches Gilbert’s elbow to drag him out of the way. They end up in a quieter corner next to the changing rooms, mostly hidden behind the stage curtains. Dust floats into their hair. Gilbert’s glad for the respite. He’s been spending most of his free time between classes with his earphones in; he gave up and took a nap in German class today, because people were being _so fucking noisy_.

Arthur is saying, ‘Did you like the concert?’

‘Yeah,’ Gilbert lies through his teeth. He can pick up the worn-out fragrance of laundry soap clinging to Arthur’s clothes and underneath that a hint of sweat, human and real. ‘It was cool. The dancers, they’re all really good.’

‘Francis is better,’ says Arthur, smiling at the ground. He doesn’t even take it back a second later. Gilbert laughs at him.

‘How drunk are you?’

‘Comfortably.’ Arthur _giggles_. It should be illegal. ‘Are you… fine?’

‘Damned right I’m fine. Do you know how pretty I am?’

‘You know what I mean.’ Arthur leans against the wall and rubs his eyes. ‘You look —’

‘How do I look, hmm?’ Gilbert wedges himself further into the shadows, right up against the wall next to Arthur. The curtains probably haven’t been washed since the 1970s. The noise from outside washes over him; backstage is its own little world and they’ve carved out a private space for themselves, somehow.

Arthur blinks at Gilbert — no, too slowly to be a blink, it’s more like the sleep-shock you get when you stand up too fast and black out for a second. It’s like he’s drugged. His eyes open again, glinting new, only to a sharp line of liquid green.

‘Tired and unimpressed.’

It’s only finals month. It’ll pass. ‘Impress me.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Arthur says. The beer-flush accentuates the shadows under his eyes. ‘You want a ride?’

‘God, you’re disgusting.’ But Gilbert’s hands are grasping the front of Arthur’s T-shirt, dragging him nearer. Somehow they’ve reached that surreal late-night point where everything is funny and nothing is off-limits. Arthur’s blinking rapidly, the dust getting in his eyes. He looks awful, pale and exhausted and with skin frosted too tightly over his sharp jaw and cheekbones. Gilbert feels so empty right now (for no good reason) that he doesn’t really know what they’re doing. He doesn’t really care, either.

‘You’re out past boarding school curfew.’

‘No, I’m not. It’s midnight on weekends.’

‘Staying out the whole night?’ Arthur asks, that angular smile tugging his long mouth sideways. Neither of them have any idea what they’re saying. Gilbert’s at the stage where lethargy is worn so deep into his bones he just keeps going on autopilot. He could manage an all-nighter if he tried it. He could sleep the whole week. He knows he isn’t making any sense when he says:

‘Sure, if you’ll keep me company.’

‘I’m offering.’

Gilbert wonders briefly where Francis and Antonio are. Maybe they won’t miss him. He finds himself taking Arthur’s wrist, for some reason. Arthur doesn’t even react.

‘What’ll we do?’

‘Our maths assignment, obviously.’ Arthur looks at him with drowsy and complete trust. ‘We should study together, you know, this week. I feel like I haven’t left my room in a year. I’m so sick of studying.’

‘I’m so sick of all the studying I haven’t done.’

‘I know. I know,’ says Arthur, apparently without registering any of that. ‘Gilbert Beilschmidt, if you want to kiss me so badly you should just do it.’

Gilbert’s hands have migrated from Arthur’s wrist to his waist. He doesn’t understand the words for several moments. Then he asks, ‘Really?’

‘I dare you,’ Arthur says in a voice that sounds almost sober, and then laughs in a way that’s definitely not.

‘And will you kiss me back?’

‘Try it and find out.’

Gilbert kisses him. Arthur’s lips part easily and he presses up against Gilbert, making small hungry noises low in his throat. His lips are chapped and his tongue cool with beer and Gilbert’s head fills with white noise, blank and comfortable.

Arthur doesn’t seem to know how to kiss properly. He learns fast, though. After a second they pull away from each other because Arthur’s eyes have started to glaze over, and the shouts and laughter from outside are dying down which means people are leaving. Arthur’s skin looks tender and bruised in the low light. He leans into Gilbert, frank and utterly unabashed, which just shows how out of it he’s got to be by this point. Daytime-Arthur would rather die than be caught putting his head on somebody else’s shoulder.

‘Come home with me. I’m not _that_ drunk.’

‘Hang on.’ Gilbert cups Arthur’s face in his palms, fingers tangling in the dust-gold hair that curls at the nape of Arthur’s neck. He can almost hear the skitter of Arthur’s pulse. Arthur’s cheeks are unhealthily warm and Gilbert’s beginning to think he might be running a fever. ‘You broken up with Antonio yet?’

‘Antonio doesn’t care, trust me.’

‘Antonio doesn’t care about a lot of things. That’s just how he copes.’

‘Mm-hmm.’

‘Means I don’t want to risk it, okay?’

‘Okay.’ Inexplicably, Arthur smiles a little. ‘One for the road?’

‘Sure.’

Arthur leans forward and pushes his warm dry mouth against Gilbert’s briefly, clumsily, his eyelashes brushing Gilbert’s cheek. Gilbert takes Arthur’s face in his hands and smoothes his thumbs over Arthur’s cheekbones. Their noses bump. It’s awkward and unreal. Tomorrow Gilbert’ll think this is a fever dream, although most things feel like that nowadays. He thinks of Antonio sneaking up behind Arthur in the library to cover his eyes, or Antonio kissing Arthur’s cheek and Arthur’s eyelashes dipping involuntarily. It doesn’t take an expert to notice Arthur is touch-starved and greedy for affection. You want to hold him close and call him well-loved and loveable.

Gilbert doesn’t, though. He only thinks it.

‘Okay,’ he says, breathing in.

‘Okay,’ Arthur echoes again, and that’s the last of Arthur looking the way he is now: benign and young. He squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again. A sort of dry, lost clarity returns to his face. His voice changes. ‘I’ll see you on Monday then.’

Gilbert pushes off the wall and watches Arthur leave. He knows they’re never going to bring this up again. Arthur won’t want to admit to this once his head clears in the morning, and Gilbert will live in eternal fear that it’ll turn out to be a figment of his imagination.

* * *

_WhatsApp, 12:07pm_

**You:** lunch?

 **Arthur:** Ok

 **Arthur:** I’m still in class I can meet you in 20 min

 **You:** no prob

 **Arthur:** Staying back to do work?

 **You:** yep wbu

 **Arthur:** I’ll join you if you want

 **You:** yeah thatd be great

 **You:** where

 **Arthur:** Anywhere’s fine

* * *

There are plenty of places to study in school besides the library: strategically placed round tables, the wide open spaces near the office and auditorium. Even the dining hall’s quiet enough if you go at the right time. Gilbert ends up at the benches beside the pond, where it’s cool and mint-smelling and the ground is cloaked in dry leaves. Several of their classmates are there, but the area is completely silent. It’s kind of unsettling. This is what happens when you’re fifth-years and exams are coming. It’ll be worse next year, if he gets to senior year.

Arthur comes down the stairs with his head down, hands deep in the pockets of his borrowed jacket. The corners of his mouth are heavy with fatigue, but he looks up and sees Gilbert and almost smiles.

Gilbert pushes his papers aside to make room for Arthur. Arthur drops his bag on the bench with barely a nod to Vash Zwingli opposite. There’s something royal about the way he turns his head. He pulls a thick book and his laptop out of his bag and sets them on the table.

‘Studying lit?’

‘I don’t _study_ lit,’ says Arthur, with glorious and terrible arrogance. ‘I read my texts a few times and make increasingly sarcastic comments. Is that chem?’

‘Yeah, it’s killing me.’ Gilbert slides his worksheet across the table.

Arthur scans it rapidly. ‘I don’t understand a word of this.’

‘Neither do I. It’s okay. You want to finish our maths assignment?’

‘Yes, all right,’ Arthur says. He taps his pen against his teeth. ‘Why don’t you do the rest of this worksheet first? I’ll just do a bit of econs while waiting.’

It doesn’t take them long to get the assignment done. Afterwards Gilbert slumps over the table, burying his head in his arms. Arthur, in a rare show of spontaneity, reaches out and ruffles his hair. The new softness of Arthur’s expression is a shared secret. Arthur thinks he’s a closed book but he’s not, at least not to Gilbert, not any more. His mouth is worn down from overuse and soft around the corners.

‘It’s all right.’

‘No, it is not all right.’

‘It’s nearly six o’clock. We’re done.’

‘I was _done_ ages ago.’ He has so much shit left to do. He can’t stop thinking about Arthur’s mouth. Arthur’s eyes, when Gilbert glances up, are half-lidded and knowing, and then he quirks a sort of smile and turns coolly to his own homework. His class notes bristle with doodles of incomprehensible fantasy creatures.

‘How’s econs?’

‘I’ve been writing econs essays in my _sleep_ ,’ says Arthur. ‘I woke up this morning and the first thing I thought was “national income increases via the multiplier”. Last week Alfred said he was glad to see me “opening up” and I immediately thought “the economy”. Where’s your essay?’

After some fumbling Gilbert produces the revision essay they got back yesterday. ‘“You show clarity of thinking but your execution leaves something to be desired.” For fuck’s sake, that’s why I’m not an arts student.’

‘You’ll be all right,’ Arthur tells him, which is the sort of thing you hear from people who have never struggled to pass exams. ‘Listen, it’s just like maths. You’re good at maths. The only difference is that economics happens to involve people and, what the hell, you’re good at people too.’

‘You’re kidding. I’m not.’

Arthur blinks. Confusion doesn’t suit him. ‘You’re not?’

‘I used to carry around this notebook in third year. To write down what I wanted to say to people before I said it. Not because my English was bad, you know, just because it was too hard to look at their faces.’

Arthur pauses, though only for a moment; Gilbert can tell that the information has shocked him. He gives Gilbert a long, considering look.

‘You hide it very well.’

From Arthur king-of-Slytherin Kirkland, that’s basically the highest possible compliment. It’s testament to how much growing up Gilbert has done over the past three years that he can look Arthur in the eye, now, even with the fault lines bleeding through every inch of him.

‘Pathetic, right?’

‘More like impressive.’

‘Would it matter to you if I wasn’t impressive?’

Again Arthur hesitates. Gilbert can see him deliberating whether to tell the truth. He’s always taken it for granted that Arthur lies constantly. This makes it all the more surprising when Arthur is clearly being truthful.

‘I find everyone I talk to very impressive. Not that I only speak to people who impress me, mind —’

‘Yeah, don’t worry, I know.’

‘Yes. Don’t tell Antonio.’

Gilbert snorts. ‘What about Francis?’

‘Oh, Francis knows, believe me,’ Arthur answers with a touch of bitterness. ‘That’s why he bothers to pay attention to me at all, the lazy git.’

‘ _Seriously?_ ’ Gilbert says. ‘How blind do you have to be to think Francis doesn’t like you? The first time I met you, you guys spent twenty minutes fighting about the price of cheese and even then I could tell you were friends.’

‘I don’t have friends,’ Arthur tells him, in that matter-of-fact way that means he has completely accepted whatever bullshit he’s spewing. ‘I have people who are useful in some way or other, and who find me useful.’

‘That,’ says Gilbert, ‘is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard you say a lot of dumb things.’

Predictably, Arthur gets distracted by that. ‘What dumb things? When?’

‘Oh, nothing specific. Class discussions?’

‘You don’t say anything during class discussions until everything descends into chaos.’

‘Because that’s the only time I feel the need to say anything. They’re all talk, most of these smart-asses.’

‘Am I a smart-ass?’ asks Arthur.

‘Yeah, and I love it. Don’t ever change.’

‘Oh.’

Gilbert cuffs the back of Arthur’s head lightly. ‘It’s okay.’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘You’re really not as obnoxious as you think you are. Trust me on this. You’ve got plenty of competition there.’

‘I don’t care about other people,’ Arthur says, voice sharp. ‘I’ve got my own standards.’

‘You’d stand out anyway with a name like yours. You _are_ named after King Arthur, right?’

‘Oh god,’ Arthur says. His smile ripples; Gilbert wants to keep it. ‘I tell everyone I’m named after Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It’s a little less embarrassing.’

They don’t stay much longer after that. The sky’s already gotten dark and while there are people who study in school till the security guards chase them out, Gilbert doesn’t have that kind of energy or motivation and Arthur doesn’t want to. Gilbert gets the impression that Arthur thinks this school isn’t all that difficult and some people are just insanely driven and hardworking. The problem is that Arthur himself is one of those people. After an hour or so Arthur stretches and smiles and asks, ‘Dinner?’

They walk to the little café opposite school to buy dinner. It’s a dim blue evening, dusk settling over the densely shaded trees, and they don’t pass many people on their way out. The air’s cool on Gilbert’s hot cheeks. His ears are ringing. Everything about these past few weeks (the long hours, the burning emptiness, how stressed out everybody else is) rustles in the back of his mind and makes him feel ill.

Just as the light turns green at the pedestrian crossing, Arthur takes Gilbert’s wrist. It’s a simple, deliberate gesture; everything about it is calculated. He holds on to Gilbert the whole time they’re crossing the street and only lets go when they reach the other side, dropping Gilbert’s hand as casually as he might put down a newspaper.

Arthur’s testing the waters. He gives Gilbert a swift glance and, because hardly anyone is around, Gilbert reaches over and touches the backs of his fingers to Arthur’s cheek. Arthur’s eyelids flicker briefly and Gilbert wonders if this is what Arthur likes about Antonio: this easy affection. Then they’re stepping into the café as if neither of them has done anything out of the ordinary.

* * *

_WhatsApp, 8:34pm_

**You:** sos

 **Matt:** yeah what’s up

 **Matt:** boy trouble?

 **You:** what else is new

 **Matt:** HAHAHAHA

 **Matt:** do tell ;)

 **You:** one sec im sending you screenshots

 **Matt:** stay strong buddy

 **You:** _(image1, image2)_

 **You:** the fuck

 **You:** is that a date

 **You:** did i just get a date with arthur ‘how to play hard to get 101’ kirkland

 **You:** i dont understand

 **Matt:** wtf the fuck

 **Matt:** GILBERT MARIA BEILSCHMIDT

 **Matt:** HOW ARE YOU SO BAD AT THIS

 **Matt:** YOU’RE BOTH SO BAD AT THIS

 **You:** YES OR NO

 **Matt:** YES IT IS

 **You:** but what if its like

 **You:** platonic lunch

 **You:** not date lunch

 **You:** just

 **You:** putting food in our mouths

 **You:** in close proximity to each other

 **Matt:** I’m just gonna ignore that

 **Matt:** are you blind

 **Matt:** let me put this delicately

 **Matt:** boy wants to ride your dick like there’s no tomorrow

 **You:** k thanks

 **Matt:** how did you not notice??

 **Matt:** he’s not playing hard to get you dumbass, he’s being sarcastic in that last line

 **Matt:** DUDE

 **Matt:** how are you gonna be Arthur’s bf if you can’t speak fluent sarcasm

 **You:** im trying

 **You:** its a sad and lonely road

 **Matt:** also Arthur has no game??? I cannot believe??? He was managing to score with uni guys when he was 14????

 **Matt:** and yet

 **Matt:** he’s fucking terrible at flirting what the fuck

 **You:** wait hold up

 **Matt:** @fake dad I BELIEVED IN YOU

 **Matt:** AND YOU LET ME DOWN

 **You:** he what now

 **Matt:** just have sex with him Gilbert IT’S NOT THAT HARD

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Arthur comes down with a temperature two days later.

He’s losing his voice, so he doesn’t bother to respond when Alfred jogs his elbow in the lecture hall and asks if he’s all right. His throat is rubbed raw. He manages to concentrate on the remainder of the maths lecture, at least, and doesn’t permit himself more than a wry smile when Eduard von Bock hangs back to ask insufferable questions as von Bock always does.

He takes his time packing up, alone amidst the rush of people trying to get out as quickly as possible. Alfred says, ‘Gotta run,’ and vanishes for his Spanish class without a backward glance; Arthur pretends he doesn’t need Alfred, so this is only to be expected. He’s in one of his less charitable moods. It’s just the headache getting to him. He’ll stop whining in a minute.

Then there’s a blur of white-gold in the corners of his vision, and Arthur turns automatically to see Gilbert with his bag slung easily over one shoulder and Héderváry at his side. Gilbert’s eyes light up when he spots Arthur; he snaps his fingers to get Arthur’s attention.

Arthur rasps, ‘What?’

‘We just found out she’s strong enough to piggyback me. Watch,’ Gilbert says, dropping his bag at Arthur’s feet, and throws his arms around Héderváry’s neck from behind as she hoists him up effortlessly. Somebody whoops appreciatively behind them and Héderváry knocks her own water bottle over.

Arthur sees now the differences between Gilbert and his two best friends — Francis charming and guarded, Antonio remote in his emerald cheerfulness. It’s too easy to think of them as a triple-headed entity. Gilbert is not universally beloved by any means, but he either likes you or doesn’t, which simplifies things. Gilbert slides off Héderváry’s back and his expression changes as he gets a better look at Arthur’s face.

‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘Oh,’ says Arthur, watching Gilbert pick his bag up. He is distantly aware that the lecture hall is emptying around them, but he can’t seem to muster the energy to move and when he looks up Héderváry’s gone. ‘It’s nothing. Fever.’

Gilbert looks at him for a moment. Then he gives a derisive sort of sniff and takes hold of Arthur’s shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

Arthur’s headed home and he says so. Somehow they end up crossing the quadrangle together, the ground already blue with a gentle snow.

‘You can sleep in the dorm if you want. It’s closer.’

Arthur blinks, sways a little, replies: ‘Sure.’

‘Sleep, I said _sleep_. Don’t get any ideas.’

‘What ideas?’ says Arthur deliriously. He leans up and presses his mouth to Gilbert’s almost as an afterthought.

That’s the good thing about this school. They could be holding hands in the hallway and nobody’d give them a second glance. Their classmates have started giving them knowing looks, though, nowadays. Arthur doesn’t particularly care. But it gives Gilbert pause; he looks older than he is from this angle, harsh in the winter sun. Gilbert’s got the sort of skin that hardly shows dark circles, for Gilbert has remarkably good skin for a seventeen-year-old and pulled all the good genes out of the pick ‘n’ mix. His exhaustion only shows in that _I-DID-NOT-SIGN-UP-FOR-THIS-SHIT_ expression, which is even more pronounced than usual.

‘Is that what we are now?’ Gilbert asks. ‘Friends who kiss each other?’

‘If you want.’

‘That how you and Antonio got started?’

Arthur’s forgotten a lot of things that should be important but he remembers quite clearly how they started — unambiguously, at least, after all the touches and shared cigarettes got too difficult to pass off as platonic. He was grumbling about something and Antonio leaned over with Antonio’s eternal honeyed simplicity and kissed him.

He was shy then. He stammered and blushed. He said, ‘Why?’

Antonio said, ‘Why not?’

Now Gilbert turns his head a little to look at Arthur properly and the bleak afternoon reduces him to this: a slight teenager shivering in his faded hoodie. Arthur sneezes.

‘That’s your own fault,’ Gilbert says, giving him a little shake. Arthur doesn’t bother to resist. ‘Being out in the cold so much. Why don’t you get your own jacket?’

‘Alfred’s jacket suits me just fine.’

‘He’s going to want it back eventually.’

‘Not a chance. I’ve had it for weeks.’

Gilbert gives him a knife-flick of a smile. ‘See, this is why half the school assumes you and Jones are fucking.’

‘ _I’ve_ fucked half the school,’ Arthur says absently. ‘And I’ve fucked over the other half. I don’t know why anyone puts up with me. I don’t know how I won the student council election —’

‘You were the most competent candidate by far, don’t put yourself down like that —’

‘I don’t even have boyfriends, you know. I just have loads and loads of exes.’

‘Would you still be saying these things if you weren’t feverish?’ Gilbert runs his fingers over the back of Arthur’s head and Arthur breathes in the powdery scent of his uniform.

‘Don’t know if I’d say them. I’d still be thinking them.’

Neither of them are the hand-holding sort. Arthur doesn’t know what to do with Gilbert, who looks ordinary and small with his hands in his pockets. After a moment he leans over, oddly sweet, and presses his lips to Arthur’s temple.

Arthur reaches out and grasps Gilbert’s wrist. ‘Come here.’

‘Hmm?’ says Gilbert, a little unwillingly, but he lets himself be pulled.

‘I like you more than is good for me.’

Gilbert’s cool mouth brushes against Arthur’s forehead. His voice is very dry. ‘Do you say that to all the guys when you want to get in their pants?’

‘No!’ says Arthur. ‘Just you.’

* * *

_WhatsApp: “16H02 B)”, 9:35pm_

**Lin Yi Ling:** Guys!!

 **Lin Yi Ling:** I know you’re all busy studying but do you want a class outing after finals!!!

 **Im Yong Soo:** YEAH LETS

 **Eduard von Bock:** I don’t mind :)

 **Elizabeta H** **éderv** **áry** **:** Where shall we go!!!

 **Vash Zwingli:** idm anything

 **Alfred F. Jones:** can we go ice skating

 **Vash Zwingli:** no

 **Lovino Vargas:** no

 **Arthur Kirkland:** no

 **Elizabeta H** **éderv** **áry** **:** no

 **Elizabeta H** **éderv** **áry** **:** I mean it’s fun but

 **Lovino Vargas:** it’s fucking expensive

 **Vash Zwingli:** ^

 **Eduard von Bock:** I veto anything involving physical activity

 **Honda Kiku:** ^yes

 **Sadik Adnan:** buffet?

 **Sadik Adnan:** turkish food?

 **Sadik Adnan:** _(image)_

 **Lin Yi Ling:** Omg looks good

 **Toris Laurinaitis:** So expensive tho :(

 **Lovino Vargas:** food yes money no

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** how about this

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** _(image)_

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** its near school has free flow drinks and all kinds of cool shit

 **Gupta Muhammad Hassan:** Nice

 **Elizabeta H** **éderv** **áry** **:** Yeah that sounds good

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** i think the debaters have camp tho

 **Arthur Kirkland:** Debate camp starts on Monday

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** wait so youre free the weekend after finals

 **Arthur Kirkland:** Yes I am!

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** oh shit thats great

 **Emil Steilsson:** get a room

 **Lovino Vargas:** get a room

 **Feliks Łukasiewicz:** get a room

 **Elizabeta H** **éderv** **áry** **:** get a room

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** trust me

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** we will

 **Elizabeta H** **éderv** **áry** **:** I can’t believe this

_Lovino Vargas changed the subject to “16H20”_

**Lovino Vargas:** because y’all thirsty as fuck

 **Arthur Kirkland:** Yeah, like that joke hasn’t been made a thousand times

 **Lovino Vargas:** wow fuck off

 **Arthur Kirkland:** It’s wearing thin from overuse

 **Natalya Arlovskaya:** just like your asshole

 **Toris Laurinaitis:** NATALYA

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** jesus christ

 **Lovino Vargas:** FUCKING ROASTED

 **Alfred F. Jones:** _(thumbs up emoji)_

 **Elizabeta H** **éderv** **áry** **:** Natalya shows up, drops a sick one-liner and leaves

 **Elizabeta H** **éderv** **áry** **:** :’)

 **Raivis Galante:** we could go to someone’s house and play cards against humanity?

 **Lovino Vargas:** aaaand kirkland goes silent

 **Lovino Vargas:** hahahaha

 **Toris Laurinaitis:** @raivis good idea! :)

 **Arthur Kirkland:** Well I can’t argue with that

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** ;)

 **Im Yong Soo:** oh my god

 **Lovino Vargas:** fucking stab me

 **Lin Yi Ling:** OKAY if we’re going to someone’s house who wants to volunteer their place? :D

 **Gupta Muhammad Hassan:** Jones has the biggest house

 **Alfred F. Jones:** lol guys you know what else of mine is the biggest

 **Sadik Adnan:** not ur dick

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** not ur dick

 **Carlos Machado:** not ur dick

 **Alfred F. Jones:** but sure you can all come over :)

 **Arthur Kirkland:** Friday after our last paper?

 **Alfred F. Jones:** what’s our last paper

 **Elizabeta H** **éderv** **áry** **:** Math

 **Alfred F. Jones:** ok

 **Carlos Machado:** did we even agree to go to jones’ place

 **Lin Yi Ling:** We’ll put it on the list and take a vote yeah :)

 **Feliks Łukasiewicz:** @jones you need to like lock your bedroom doors

 **Feliks Łukasiewicz:** And don’t leave beilschmidt and kirkland alone together

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** you guys need to chill im not gonna fuck anyone in somebody elses house

 **Arthur Kirkland:** Even I wouldn’t stoop that low

 **Alfred F. Jones:** ““““even”””””…..

 **Elizabeta H** **éderv** **áry** **:** If you keep sucking Gilbert’s dick it’s going to disappear like a lollipop

 **Natalya Arlovskaya:** not like there was much to wear down anyway

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** HEY

 **Carlos Machado:** ARLOVSKAYA STRIKES AGAIN

 **Lovino Vargas:** HAHAHAHAHAHA

 **Lovino Vargas:** ICONIC

 **Alfred F. Jones:** is anybody screenshotting these

 **Alfred F. Jones:** best of arlovskaya: the compilation

 **Eduard von Bock:** I am

 **Feliks Łukasiewicz:** Omg Eduard’s just observing

 **Alfred F. Jones:** those eyes see everything

 **Feliks Łukasiewicz:** I’m scared

_Feliks Łukasiewicz changed the subject to “16 HOES”_

**Feliks Łukasiewicz:** There I fixed it

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** k but what about the 9 remaining people in our class who arent thirsty hoes

 **Elizabeta H** **éderv** **áry** **:** None of your business

 **Feliks Łukasiewicz:** ^what she said

 **Feliks Łukasiewicz:** Because you totally aren’t one of them

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** you cut me deep

 **Elizabeta H** **éderv** **áry:** I hope it bleeds

* * *

His mouth is gritty and sour when he wakes up. He lies under his blankets, tasting his sleep-sweat and the hot blood prickling his veins; he can hear Ludwig’s light snores from the other side of the room. He’s a little giddy. He blinks at the ceiling. Dark: the shapes of furniture made foreign.

There’s a solid weight sitting on his chest. He breathes in once, twice, very calmly. He feels sick from too much sleep. Then he shifts under the blankets — or doesn’t, he can’t really feel his legs. The alarm clock glowing green on Ludwig’s bedside table: it’s three thirty-five. The room is blurred and unreal.

He sits up in bed, or thinks he does. Blankets pool around his waist. It’s like watching the movements of a stranger.

Okay. Okay.

His phone’s on the bedside table. He watches his fingers curl around it. Unlocks it. Okay, one step at a time. It’s happened before. It’ll pass. The light of the phone screen _hurts_.

He’s on the floor and looking at the ceiling.

The room pulses around him.

He is still holding his phone. He’s calling Arthur.

Okay.

He keeps looking at the screen, just for something to focus his eyes on. Breathe.

Then, impossibly, the phone says: ‘Hello?’

He misses it at first — but the phone keeps talking. It says, ‘Gilbert?’

Gilbert discovers that he’s shivering. The floor is chilly and he’s conscious of air entering his lungs. Okay. Breathing. Okay.

Keep going.

‘Are you there?’

‘Hi.’

Arthur, distant, tired: ‘At this hour? Is something the matter?’

What do you say to that? Instead of answering he says, ‘Did I, did, I didn’t wake you up, right?’

‘No. Have you been awake all this time?’

There’s a silence. Arthur’s voice sounds strained, but Arthur is always strained, if you pick through the radio quality of his Received Pronunciation. It doesn’t seem like he’s been asleep.

So it’s okay.

‘Take your time,’ Arthur says.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I couldn’t sleep. I’m reading one of my lit texts.’

The cold’s eating into him on the floor, so he gets back into bed. He presses the phone to his ear. He doesn’t feel much better, but it’s something.

The shape of Arthur’s words is different now. Absent-minded and relaxed, he’s sliding into his natural, looser voice. There’s a warm late-night curl to the ends of his consonants, a thickening of his vowels. The darkness of Gilbert’s bedroom is very quiet around them. He can hear Arthur adjusting his own breathing to match Gilbert’s.

‘Guess what it is.’

‘Mmm.’ Somebody is speaking, he is responding. That’s good. That’s normal. Okay. ‘Shakespeare?’

‘Got it in one,’ Arthur answers, mimicking Gilbert’s turn of phrase. ‘How did you know?’

He doesn’t have to wait more than a few seconds this time. ‘You sound way too happy.’

Here’s another sound: Arthur’s little huff of breath.

‘Some people sing in the shower. I bet you recite Shakespeare.’

‘Where’s the challenge in that? I recite Chaucer.’

He has to laugh. ‘No, you don’t.’

‘No, I don’t.’

Gilbert pulls the blankets over his head. ‘Read me some of it.’

‘Hmm,’ goes Arthur. There’s a new gentleness to him, his edges softened in the still, unearthly hours between night and morning. Arthur turns a few pages, pauses, flips through what sounds like several more pages rapidly. ‘Right. Listen. “Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises…”’


	6. blow what's left of my right mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realise the timeline for this fic probably makes no sense but.......you know what…….just don’t think about it too hard
> 
> chapter title: [future starts slow by the kills](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NwudqTCkBis)

‘Why are we talking?’ asks Antonio pleasantly.

Arthur looks at him in surprise. They’re sitting on the old stone ledge beside the open-air carpark, in their favourite spot, Antonio swinging his feet. The wind’s sharp on Arthur’s cheeks. It gets into Antonio’s hair, gold-dark flyaways wavering against the cunning serenity of his face.

‘We talk all the time.’

‘Not like this. Not real talk.’ Antonio has a point. He leans over, now, and kisses Arthur casually. Arthur transfers the cigarette from his left hand to his right.

He looks down at Antonio’s fingers curled easily over the curve of Arthur’s knee — at Antonio’s hands with their calloused knuckles and bitten-down nails. Antonio is a hazard all on his own, because he waves his hands around wildly when he gets excited and to hell with whatever he’s holding. Physical touch, to Antonio, is a language as nuanced as Spanish or English. He’s far beyond the taboos of teenage boys; he either doesn’t know the first thing about them or (more likely) doesn’t care. In a way, Arthur loves him. Arthur will never show it but he _does_ feel things about other people, he’s come to realise, as neurotic and ugly and controlling as he is. He’s terrible at this. And Antonio is a boy stretched thin, bleeding affection into the crevices of his few fully-formed friendships.

Antonio says, ‘Do you know — Francis is worried about you and Gilbert.’

Antonio reaches out and brushes away the leaves that have floated down to rest on Arthur’s hair. Arthur coughs into his fist. ‘Together or separately?’

‘Both? I don’t know. Gilbert’s been in a foul mood lately. Is that anything to do with you?’

Gilbert is in a foul fucking mood on his best days, but Arthur’s not about to say that out loud. He can’t imagine most things without Gilbert, aggressive and prickly and loveable in every imaginable way. ‘No. No, I don’t think so. He seemed all right last time I saw him.’

‘He’s nice to you,’ Antonio says darkly.

Arthur inhales. He’s still a little sick and he smokes too much, not that it’s a habit he ever intends to break. He’s beginning to recognise that the bitter, boring, nails-on-chalkboard school routine — exams, consultations — doesn’t make him anxious like it does for Gilbert. People make him anxious. This realisation has taken him seventeen years.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Antonio shrugs, eyes soft with a kind of detached curiosity. ‘He’s irritable as fuck. It’ll come through eventually.’

‘And me?’

Antonio laughs. ‘We can see you’re a disaster from _space_ , Arthur.’

‘And here I thought I was being so subtle,’ says Arthur.

‘At least you’re more self-aware than Gilbert. Everything’s distorted with him. Don’t you tell Jones anything?’

‘No. Why’s everyone in such a bad mood lately? Including you. You’re being harsher than usual. Are you mad at Gilbert?’

‘I’m never mad at Gilbert. Why not?’

Arthur’s gotten much better at reading Antonio over the years; he can figure out what Antonio’s referring to about seventy percent of the time, now.

‘Alfred doesn’t need or want to know.’

‘You think so little of other people. Okay, so what’s up?’

‘Hmm?’

Patiently, Antonio repeats: ‘Why are we talking?’

Arthur takes another long drag, sucking smoke into his lungs.

‘Try to read the hints I’m giving you,’ he says at last. ‘Think about it for a moment.’

This game again. Antonio’s mouth curls upwards. ‘Think I can do it?’

‘Yeah, you can do it.’

‘Oh!’ says Antonio, revelation dawning on him like the sun. ‘You’re straight!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Do I get another guess?’

Arthur smiles. He can’t help it. ‘Two more guesses. Don’t push your luck.’

‘You’re in love with me!’

‘Antonio —’

‘You’re breaking up with me!’

‘Now he gets it,’ Arthur says meditatively to the trees drooping overhead. There isn’t a hint of surprise on Antonio’s soft imperious features, or any kind of negative emotion — only delight that he’s figured it out. ‘Well, there wasn’t anything to break up, was there?’

Gilbert would have hit on the use of past tense right away. Antonio doesn’t, or at least pretends not to. Antonio says, ‘Yeah! But you can have breakups without ever really dating. It’s like how you have no boyfriends and strings and strings of exes.’

‘God,’ says Arthur. ‘I just said that to Gilbert last week, you know, but hearing it from you is a whole different story.’

‘You should stop pretending to be a stone-cold asshole.’ Antonio blows a wobbly smoke ring. ‘You’re always cringing at everything on the inside.’

‘You’ve been holding back all this time, haven’t you?’

‘I wish you’d tell people when you’re upset, instead of keeping it all inside you.’

‘Is that a specific or general recommendation?’

‘I don’t understand the question,’ replies Antonio very sincerely. ‘Look, can I kiss you one last time for luck?’

Arthur sighs. He’s been doing that much more often lately. It’s Gilbert rubbing off on him. Arthur is not used to that much externalised emotion.

‘Yes, you can.’

Antonio kisses people like kissing is a new idea he’s just invented and decided to try out on whoever happens to be standing near him at the time. You learn not to take it personally. With Antonio’s height, his classically handsome features, he really ought to be more intimidating than he is (and then there’s sleek fine-boned Francis with his cat’s smile and his ruthlessness).

‘Well, good luck with Vargas,’ Arthur says when Antonio pulls back. ‘By which I mean you’re wasting your time.’

‘It’s okay. It was fun while it lasted.’ It takes Arthur a second to realise Antonio’s talking about himself and Arthur, not Lovino Vargas. ‘I mean, I do like you quite a lot. So does Gilbert, you know.’

Arthur leans forward and puts his head in his hands. He has to. Antonio squeezes his shoulder absent-mindedly.

‘— and it wasn’t exactly friends with benefits but we _are_ friends, aren’t we, we can be if you like, and isn’t friendship the biggest benefit of all?’

‘Antonio?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Stop talking.’

‘Okay,’ Antonio says easily. ‘I won’t tell anyone, you know, but Gilbert’ll be relieved when he figures it out. He’s been weird about this for months.’

Arthur fumbles the cigarette on its way to his mouth and nearly drops it. ‘What?’

‘Like, I mean, we share lots of things but we don’t share our fuck buddies, that’s a bit much even for us.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘It’s okay. Gilbert’s pretty hard to read for most people. I’d never have thought he had a crush on you if he hadn’t texted me some strange stuff that one time, and that was probably because he wanted me to know.’

‘I doubt he thought that far ahead.’

‘That’s true. It’s a lot more obvious to the people in your classes, I guess. I mean, they see you two every day.’

Arthur can feel the dark honeyed smoke rising in his throat.

‘Right. I’m going to finish my cigarette and go.’

He expects Antonio to just wave him off in Antonio’s easy uncaring way, but Antonio surprises Arthur; he blinks at Arthur with heavy, inquisitive eyelashes.

‘So soon?’

‘I’m heading to the computer lab. Gilbert and I have to turn in our maths assignment and my home printer isn’t working.’

‘Oh, that,’ says Antonio, brightening. He’s paler in winter every year, unhealthy-looking now: his dark skin ought to be warmed by the sun. He’s still warm. ‘Want me to come with you?’

‘It’s all right.’

‘You really don’t like hanging around me, do you?’

Arthur could tell the truth for once. Instead he slides off the ledge, gravel crunching under his feet. The cold edge of the stone scrapes against his back. ‘Took you long enough to realise.’

* * *

_WhatsApp, 00:39am_

**Arthur:** Yeah I’m not sleeping yet either

 **Arthur:** How is it going anyway?

**You:**

* * *

_WhatsApp, 10:24am_

**Elizabeta:** Oh no

 **Elizabeta:** Gilbert NO

 **Elizabeta:** HAHAHA

 **Elizabeta:** Btw

 **Elizabeta:** Are you going for class outing??? We have to make the reservation early

 **Elizabeta:** Reply on class chat!!

 **You:** _typing…_

**You:**

* * *

_WhatsApp, 11:41am_

**Matt:** dude you’ve blue ticked me for like 3 days wtf

 **Matt:** shit that came out more aggressive than I meant

 **You:** _typing…_

 **Matt:** anyway I gotta tell you what happened to me today

 **Matt:** idm if you don’t reply tbh like

 **Matt:** it’s cool man

 **Matt:** ok so I’m in town w my friend and we’re at Tim Hortons right

 **Matt:** and this cashier?? Gives me a death glare???

 **Matt:** idk she was pretty cute

 **Matt:** I don’t think I did anything????

 **Matt:** I don’t even go there that often how could she hate me

 **Matt:** do you think

 **Matt:** I have an evil twin

 **You:** yes you do

 **Matt:** ????

 **Matt:** oh

 **You:** just not a twin

 **Matt:** ALFRED FUCKING JONES

 **You:** thats right

 **Matt:** G O D

 **Matt:** I can’t believe I’m still getting shit for Al’s fuckups smh

 **You:** plot twist youre the evil twin

 **Matt:** fuck you, I’m an angel

 **Matt:** so anyway

 **Matt:** I didn’t say thank you like I normally do!

 **You:** JESUS MATTHEW

 **Matt:** ayyy lmao

 **You:** that was STONE COLD

 **You:** you better watch your back the canadian police are coming to arrest you as we speak

 **You:** did you even say please when you ordered

 **Matt:** of course I did, I’m not a MONSTER

* * *

_WhatsApp, 6:06pm_

**Ludwig:** Shall I buy you dinner? Feliciano and I are at the Italian place

 **Ludwig:** :) ?

 **Ludwig:** Reply soon, they stop taking orders at 6.30

 **Ludwig:** Also there’s tiramisu in the fridge, Feliciano made it yesterday

 **Ludwig:** Have a treat while you’re working

**You:**

**You:**

**You:**

* * *

‘Yep, that’s it. I’m out. I’m leaving,’ Feliks Łukasiewicz announces in the middle of the physics lecture, shucking off their cardigan and dropping it into Laurinaitis’ lap. ‘I’m going down to the dining hall to get food. You guys want anything?’

‘Coffee, thanks,’ says von Bock without looking up from his revision notes. His glasses are wedged halfway down his nose and he’s got ink stains on the sleeves of his jacket.

Elizabeta glances over at Gilbert, then nudges him. He raises his head from his arms. ‘Make that two.’

Łukasiewicz is repinning their hair barrette. ‘The offer doesn’t extend to you, Beilschmidt. You haven’t paid me back for anything since, like, second year.’

‘Go fuck yourself,’ replies Gilbert automatically. He’s too tired for this. ‘You want payback? I’ll pay you right now.’

Nobody else gives them a second glance, but Elizabeta (who’s sitting between them) shoves Gilbert lightly, almost as an afterthought. She’s chewing absent-mindedly on the end of her pencil. ‘Keep your voice down.’

‘I have just found some biscuits at the bottom of my bag.’ Kiku looks faintly disturbed. ‘I am not sure how they got there.’

‘I’ll eat them,’ Lovino Vargas chimes in at once, with a kind of wide-eyed manic energy.

‘I don’t mean they’re in a box, or anything. They are mostly crumbs at this point and they look like they’re weeks old.’

‘Fuck that. I’ll eat them anyway.’

Hands on their hips, Łukasiewicz looks over Kiku’s shoulder and gives an appreciative whistle. ‘That’s totally disgusting.’

‘Like, totally,’ Gilbert mocks.

Elizabeta ruffles his hair roughly. ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘Guys, come on,’ Lin Yi Ling mutters from the row behind them.

‘You are such a dick,’ says Łukasiewicz peacefully in Gilbert’s direction. ‘You are _such_ a _dick_ , you know that?’

‘Feliks, shush,’ Laurinaitis hisses.

‘Mr Łukasiewicz, would you like to sit down?’ the lecturer says into the microphone.

Łukasiewicz throws their hands up. ‘Okay, first of all, _ma’am_ , I’m not a mister. Second of all —’

Lovino Vargas groans into his sleeve.

‘I’m going to gag Łukasiewicz,’ Gilbert says, not bothering to drop his voice to a whisper. Kiku reaches over von Bock to pat Gilbert’s shoulder gingerly. ‘They’re giving me the biggest fucking headache.’

‘ _You’re_ my biggest fucking headache,’ Elizabeta tells him, not without affection, and gently pushes his head back down onto the table. ‘Good night. Don’t talk. God, what a disaster of a day.’

* * *

When Gilbert walks into the dorm’s common room that afternoon the first thing he says is, ‘So Feliks Łukasiewicz got detention for mouthing off to a lecturer. It’s nice to not be the only one.’

Francis stops tapping his foot and takes his earphones out. ‘You haven’t been in detention for a while, have you?’

Ignoring Francis, Gilbert continues: ‘I might kill them, though, if we’re alone in the same room and Laurinaitis isn’t around to stop me.’

‘You guys need to chill,’ Antonio says, rubbing his eyes. He’s lying on the floor with his feet in the air, an open book of practice questions in front of him. His hair’s still damp from the shower. ‘It’s not worth it. You’re only fifth-years.’

Francis looks up at Gilbert from the couch and pats the cushions beside him.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing’s the matter.’ Gilbert lets his bag drop and starts pulling out his textbooks. ‘I’ve just been faking not being an asshole this whole time. At last, my true colours —’

Francis puts his hand over Gilbert’s mouth. ‘We know your true colours. What are you planning to do today? Antonio is doing his revision and I am crying over revision, you’re always welcome to join us.’

‘I’m not,’ says Antonio. ‘I gave up. Why are there fifty-seven pages on organic chem, _why_?’

Gilbert leans over to look. The diagrams blur on the page. ‘I thought you were doing bio.’

‘I gave up on that, too.’

‘Gilbert, don’t ever be a senior. It is not worth the effort.’

They’re going to graduate and leave him behind and nothing’s really worth the effort. Gilbert glances at Antonio.

‘Says the guy who studies like six hours a day —’

‘Six hours _after_ classes —’ Antonio adds immediately.

‘— and qualifies for advanced courses in five subjects. Only five! You should be ashamed of yourself.’

‘Because he only takes five subjects in the first place!’

‘Disgraceful!’

‘All right, stop. I get it,’ Francis interjects a little irritably, though there’s a smile threatening the corners of his mouth. ‘What’s the point? Let’s just go for dinner and forget about everything.’

They don’t, though. They eat quickly and in near-silence. Gilbert is so used to being tangled up with Antonio and Francis, to being _known_ ; they can’t help it. They live together. They’ve seen each other’s tiniest flaws and biggest insecurities — their savage moods, their quick anger and stupid mistakes, their loyalty. They breathe each other’s oxygen.

‘I must ask you something,’ Francis says to Gilbert in an undertone, when they come back from the dining hall. It’s dark outside through the long glass windows. Antonio’s sprawled over the beanbags opposite them, scrolling through his Twitter feed, and they both glance over at him.

‘I’m not listening,’ Antonio says agreeably, and puts in his earphones.

They’re friends and they love each other more than anything but they still keep secrets from each other. It looks like Gilbert can’t manage two simultaneous friendships with people who aren’t even in his year, let alone get along with all of his classmates — not that he wants to, because they drive him crazy most of the time. His hands feel like they don’t belong to him.

‘Okay, now you’re making me nervous.’

Francis says, ‘Are you dating our Arthur?’

Gilbert gives Francis a look and he knows his gaze can be accidentally scorching, because he’s seen people flinch when he didn’t mean to make them do it, but Francis doesn’t even blink. Bless him. ‘Jesus Christ. _Really?_ ’

‘It’s a genuine question.’

He wants, unfairly, to snap at Francis — to say _he’s not your Arthur_ , except Arthur kind of is, has been close to Francis and Antonio for longer than he’s known Gilbert, and fits with them in a way Gilbert doesn’t. And Francis probably meant _our_ to include Gilbert, too, although that isn’t true either. Francis was right: Gilbert really is too fucking dramatic.

‘Honestly? I have no idea.’

Francis nods. ‘It is like that with Arthur. But you’ve liked him for —’

‘It’s pretty embarrassing. A while.’

Francis looks at him, then away, slow blue eyes lined with sleep-dark shadows. ‘I didn’t know you were interested in anyone.’

‘I told Matthew.’

‘Yes.’

‘Thought you’d make fun of me.’

Francis says nothing.

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Gilbert says, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. He doesn’t have any right to feel annoyed anyway. Francis has a point. Francis is definitely picking up on his tone, which only makes him feel worse about it. He can’t _not_ fuck up anything, can he? ‘I didn’t mean it. It’s just, you guys don’t have to know everything about me, you know?’

‘But you know everything about us.’ Francis gives a little shrug like he’s ashamed to admit this, but his voice is matter-of-fact. ‘I don’t understand why you doubt that.’

Gilbert’s always up for a fight or two but there’s got to be something wrong with him if he keeps running into conflict with the people he likes.

‘Okay.’ Gilbert reaches out and squeezes Francis’ shoulder briefly. They’re not touchy-feely with each other (less so than Gilbert and Antonio, at any rate); still, Francis quirks a smile, the familiar golden ease returning to his face with something like relief. ‘Sorry. I’m a real… I’m a real dick.’

‘You are overthinking everything these days. You’re not fine.’

‘No, I am. It’s just my personality.’

‘No, trust me, it’s really not.’

He doesn’t bother arguing with that. A few minutes later Francis excuses himself to go to the bathroom, and Gilbert stretches his foot out, from the couch, to poke Antonio idly.

‘What’re you listening to?’

‘Hmm?’ says Antonio, but he’s too slow — Gilbert flops onto the beanbag beside him. Although Antonio has really shitty music, he never minds sharing and lets Gilbert steal his phone occasionally.

Antonio isn’t listening to anything.

Gilbert says, ‘Oh, shit.’

‘I don’t mind. Why did you think I’d mind?’

‘Yeah, okay. You’re upset though.’

‘I’m not upset,’ Antonio tells him. ‘It takes a lot to upset me, you know.’

* * *

_WhatsApp, 7:21pm_

**Antonio:** hey do you want to come over?

 **You:** Antonio we just talked about this

 **Antonio:** not like that hahaha

 **Antonio:** we’re gonna get drunk! it’s saturday night!

 **Antonio:** I mean get drunk and then continue studying for finals

 **Antonio:** obviously

 **You:** Obviously

 **Antonio:** #boardingschool

 **Antonio:** can’t remember the last time I had a social life

 **You:** How do you lot get anything done if you’re all pissed

 **Antonio:** search me

 **Antonio:** anyway, gilbert could use the company

 **Antonio:** he’s been more depressed than usual lately

 **You:** Don’t say that around him, he’s touchy about it

 **Antonio:** I know HAHA I’ve known him for 4 years

 **Antonio:** so are you coming???

 **Antonio:** francis says bring booze

 **Antonio:** like the shittiest you can find in your house

 **You:** Give me 30 min

* * *

Arthur’s in a faded Sex Pistols T-shirt that comes down over his hips and soft, dark jeans pooling around his ankles. Cheeks dust-pink, he looks calmly at Gilbert when the door swings open.

Gilbert stares at him for a minute. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was just thinking I haven’t seen you in a while.’ Gilbert is not sure when his Arthur stopped being the cool, harsh-eyed Arthur Kirkland who reads the morning announcements over the intercom and turned into this boy. He looks drowsy and touchable. Now he snaps his fingers in front of Gilbert’s nose to get his attention, because Arthur’s a dick like that.

‘Come up to Francis’ room with me? We’re all about to get sloshed.’

‘Oh,’ says Gilbert. He’s on… he’s on way too much caffeine right now. His head spins. Watering down the high with beer that tastes like cat’s piss sounds like a pretty great idea. He’s doing fine, anyway. He got past the not-being-able-to-get-started-on-homework shit a while ago, and things can only go uphill from here. He feels like death but he sure as hell doesn’t intend to stop now. The corridor’s pale and foreign. It’s a bit early for him to be burning out like this.

He wonders, briefly, at how easily Arthur has inserted himself into their puzzle-piece-slotting lives. Arthur can slip into the dorm on a weekend night and show up outside Gilbert’s door to invite him to something he didn’t know about. Arthur belongs with them, really. He always has.

‘You’re here to get me?’

Arthur gives Gilbert a slow once-over, eyes guarded. ‘You look like a ghost all the time anyway, but I’d rather you didn’t turn into one where I can’t see you.’

‘Give me a second to get my stuff.’

Arthur nods at the textbooks in Gilbert’s arms when he emerges.

‘No practice papers?’

‘I’ll fail those papers if I do them.’

‘It doesn’t matter if you do them slowly and refer to the notes for every question. You’ll feel better after you finish them.’ This is one of the best things about Arthur: he’s so level-headed that you trust him instinctively, even when you know he’s bullshitting you. That’s why it doesn’t sting when Arthur asks, ‘Shall I talk you through them?’

‘It’s okay. None of you take physics.’

‘That’s why you have —’

‘— Ludwig, yeah. Want to go?’

Three hours later, they’re all slightly tipsy and drinking shitty beer out of Antonio’s chipped mugs with little cats on them. Around eleven o’clock they wanted to order pizza but decided it was a shit idea, so they’re stuffing their faces with chips instead. Gilbert’s at Francis’ desk, Arthur sitting cross-legged on the floor by his feet; Francis alternates between the floor and the other desk (left empty when Francis’ Norwegian roommate went home), and Antonio is on Francis’ bed because where else would Antonio be?

There’s no moon, and they’ve drawn the blinds so no one can see that the light’s on from outside. Not that anybody cares, though. When Gilbert gets up, stretching, and pads over to the window to peer round the edge of the blinds, the grass is soaked inky with shadows. He can see the ripples across the surface of the stone-smooth pond; it’s comforting, in a way. Papers are strewn everywhere, and Francis and Arthur have gotten into another fantastic argument. Gilbert would exile them to some desert island to fight it out but he can’t be bothered and he thinks they might eat each other.

‘I am sure my research paper was a wreck, I can hardly remember a word of it.’

‘So don’t think about it,’ Gilbert says without turning from the window. ‘Antonio, you read it, right?’

‘It was amazing! Words were strung together in a logical fashion, but I didn’t understand any of them!’

‘Stop worrying, Francis,’ Arthur snaps, looking up from his maths homework. ‘Antonio doesn’t take philosophy so his opinions don’t matter.’

‘That’s rude,’ Francis protests on reflex. But Antonio nods with an agreeable sort of pout and says:

‘That’s true.’

Gilbert goes over to sit on the floor beside Arthur. He can feel his bones creaking. Arthur shoots him a knowing, exclusive look and something warm and liquid settles somewhere in Gilbert’s ribs.

‘Francis, come on, you’re Karpusi’s favourite student.’

Francis’ eyebrows flick upwards in the way that means he’s only half-joking. ‘I am everyone’s favourite student.’

‘Not true,’ they all say instantly.

Amidst the clamour Antonio holds up one hand like he’s swearing an oath and says brightly, ‘Edelstein —’

Francis, cheeks flushed as a child’s, is laughing into his mug. ‘Edelstein _left_! He wasn’t even a good history teacher!’

‘That one time, I think he said —’

‘What he said about me doesn’t count!’

‘All of you, shut up.’ Gilbert sits down heavily on Bondevik’s old bed. ‘Are we doing any more work tonight? Are we giving up? Because I don’t know about you guys, but I’m ready to give up.’

Arthur tosses back the rest of his beer and reaches for a refill. ‘I don’t mind. My earphones just stopped working, anyway. I feel like a part of me has died.’

Francis looks at him curiously. ‘You and Gilbert are beginning to talk like each other.’

‘That’s terrible,’ Gilbert says. ‘Pass me your earphones. Maybe I can fix them.’

‘Doesn’t anyone go round the different floors to check on you?’ Arthur asks, handing Gilbert his earphones. He’s met with three near-identical shrugs.

‘We’re being really quiet and only two of us are below the drinking age. This is nothing.’ Antonio lies back on Francis’ bed and puts his arm over his eyes. Francis glances in his direction and then tosses a pillow at him; Antonio catches it gratefully. ‘I’m so sleepy. You should’ve been here for the party last month. I fell into the pond and we all got detention! Why don’t you move into the dorms, Arthur?’

Arthur gives Antonio a contemptuous sidelong glance. ‘My family’s not _that_ bad.’

‘Hush, he doesn’t mean anything by it,’ says Francis at once. ‘Do you want to know something, Arthur?’

Gilbert lies back on the floor and settles a cushion under his head. His feet are freezing. ‘I see where this is going. Don’t let him start, Arthur, he’ll go on for hours.’

‘That’s only because you encourage him,’ Antonio responds from the bed.

‘Now you’re making me curious.’

‘Listen, I don’t understand how half the people in our dorm have not fucked each other by now, have you _seen_ them, I swear all the best-looking boys in St. Cat’s are gathered in this dorm —’

‘Okay. Okay, he has a point.’

‘I think it’s called…’ Antonio pauses meditatively. ‘…being straight.’

‘The idea!’

‘All of us cooped up in here, Francis, they’re going to think we’re fucking.’

‘Smoking weed and fucking,’ Antonio puts in helpfully.

‘At the same time?’ says Gilbert.

‘Why not?’

Francis drags the back of his hand over his eyes. ‘How does that work?’

‘Nothing’s impossible. I room with the biggest drug dealer on campus. I’ve learned a lot! When he went home for term break I had to look after that fucking rabbit for two weeks until Kiku Honda took it off my hands.’

‘Ah, yes. Tim,’ says Arthur, his voice fond. That Fucking Rabbit’s got to have reached the status of school legend by now. ‘Anybody who manages to piss you off that often is a winner in my book.’

‘Antonio doesn’t get pissed off, not really. He just gets extremely fucking scary.’

‘Lovino gets scared very easily,’ Antonio says into the pillow.

‘Oh, Antonio.’ Francis scoots over to sit on the bed beside Antonio. ‘It will not be so bad. He isn’t worth it, at any rate.’

Antonio sits up and Arthur hands him another beer can with a raised eyebrow. ‘I thought you loved Lovino.’

‘No, Francis loves his fashion sense. There’s a difference.’

‘Doesn’t he have a girlfriend now?’ Arthur asks. ‘Tim’s sister? I heard —’

‘Wait a moment, you mean Tim’s sister Laura? Antonio’s friend Laura?’

‘Shit, Antonio, I’m sorry. That sucks.’

‘Does it?’ Antonio asks, surprised, and Gilbert backtracks hastily.

‘No! No, it’s okay. Look, just drink up. I’ll get you some more shitty beer.’

‘You’ll always have us,’ says Francis sleepily. He’s enunciating his words with great care.

‘You’ll feel better in the morning! Actually, you’ll have such a killer hangover you won’t be thinking about anything else. Come on, chin up.’

Francis reaches across Arthur’s lap for his phone, nearly fumbling it to the floor in the process. ‘Arthur, say something nice.’

‘Don’t cry into your beer. Trust me, it doesn’t improve the taste.’

‘You’re very supportive! I need to throw up.’

‘Do it out the window,’ Gilbert orders as Francis glances up in alarm. Antonio nearly falls off the bed, flails around for a bit as Arthur grabs his elbow to keep him steady, then sways to the window and dry-heaves for a few seconds. ‘We’re all fucking lightweights, I swear to god.’

‘Nothing came up. I’m fine.’ Antonio wisely chooses not to try walking back to the bed. He collapses on the floor beside the window. Arthur, who’s looking a little worse for wear himself, leans his head against the desk leg.

Gilbert reaches out to tousle Arthur’s hair distractedly. ‘You know, Arthur, you’d probably be really good friends with Lovino Vargas in another universe.’

‘Is that a universe in which I am _dead_? Because —’

‘He’s not bitter,’ Francis explains. ‘That is his competitive streak talking. I, for one, have only the most generous emotions regarding Lovino Vargas.’

‘Yeah? Well, I have fuck-all,’ says Arthur, ‘so I’m feeling a little bitter. If you’ll excuse me.’

‘You’re excused. Please leave,’ Francis says, yawning. ‘No, no, I did not mean that. Don’t get up. You’ll fall over. Have another drink.’

‘Stay, please. We want you here, you know, because all of us are attracted to you on some level which we’re not very happy about but what can you do, right?’

Gilbert laughs. ‘Francis, don’t be offended.’

‘I am offended and there’s nothing you can do about it.’

‘Francis is attracted to everyone!’

‘Everyone,’ Francis snaps, ‘only includes people who are not _the spawn of the devil in human form_.’

‘Aw, you’re hurting his feelings.’

‘I haven’t got any feelings,’ Arthur says. ‘Sod off, Francis. You should be grateful I’m spending my Saturday night with you instead of… yeah, drinking alone in my bedroom, this isn’t so bad, actually.’

Antonio rolls over to fix Arthur with one mildly concerned green eye. ‘Were you really going to get drunk at home without us?’

‘Absolutely not. What an idea!’

‘Yes, he was,’ Gilbert says.

‘Don’t worry. I will be with you for the rest of our lives,’ Francis promises, which is the sort of thing Francis says when he’s very nearly blackout drunk. Antonio pats him absently.

Arthur grimaces. ‘Don’t threaten me like that.’

‘Isn’t Gilbert going to be with Arthur for the rest of their lives?’ asks Antonio.

Gilbert, who has been staring at the stains on the ceiling and watching them blur gently before his eyes, rolls over onto his stomach. ‘What?’

‘Oh, very well,’ says Arthur. ‘We’ll adopt both of you. I’ll be good, I promise. I am the fucking poster child for fatherhood and the family fucking unit.’

Francis claps. ‘Only twelve-thirty and the claws come out, my duckling!’

‘Francis, whose side are you even on?’

‘I don’t know,’ replies Francis miserably. ‘I am too drunk to function.’

‘I like it,’ Antonio says, eyes shining. ‘I’m happy for you. I didn’t know Arthur liked them pretty.’

‘Wait, I’m pretty?’

‘You said I was the pretty one,’ Francis says, wounded.

‘There’s a phrase for this.’ Arthur studies the contents of his mug. ‘In Latin. You are drunk when you’re truth — you’re truthful when you’re drunk.’

‘I’ve got it! _Veni, vidi, vici_.’

Francis pauses delicately over the rim of his beer can. ‘No.’

‘Antonio, look,’ Gilbert says, ‘we’re never going to love anyone as much as we love you. Shit, that’s probably the gayest thing I’ve ever said. This is a really nice floor.’

‘A toast to that,’ Francis cries.

‘Cheers!’

Antonio’s eyes are wide. ‘Do you, though?’

‘Yeah, why not? I love you so much I might pass out. Actually, I might pass out anyway so I’m going to go drink some water. Stay hydrated, guys!’

Francis and Arthur eye them with matching expressions.

‘Such affection,’ Francis sighs. ‘It is touching. This beer is terrible, Arthur, open another can for me.’

‘You’re not feeling at _all_ left out,’ Arthur marvels.

‘Not at all,’ says Francis. ‘Arthur, I —’

‘No.’

‘I’m only trying to keep up with the mood here —’

‘I will shave off my own eyebrows and stuff them down your throat, so help me god.’

‘Very well. It would be a lie if I said it, anyway.’

Shortly afterwards Arthur announces he’s stepping outside for a smoke. Dizzily happy, and so warm he feels like he’s floating, Gilbert follows Arthur out the door after a minute.

‘You like heights?’

‘Hmm?’ Arthur is rarely unsteady on his feet, or unsteady about anything — he’s cool as a scientist even on his worst days. He’s tipsy all right, but it shows in the way he’s a little softer than usual, a little more warmth spilling into his moon-pale face with the raw bruise-like shadows and a smile lingering around the corners of his lips. He looks at Gilbert with comfortable wonder. ‘Oh. Not particularly.’

‘Well, I’m going up on the roof.’ Gilbert tosses back the rest of his drink and drops the beer can into a nearby rubbish bin. ‘Want to come?’

Luckily for them the door to the firefighters’ staircase is unlocked. They scramble up the ladder in the filthy darkness, cursing a little. Gilbert’s got rust streaks on his palms when they finally squeeze themselves through the trapdoor and emerge into the shocking late-night chill.

‘Jesus, it’s cold.’ Gilbert grips the railing with both hands and leans over, peering down into the garden below. It’s not pitch-black, exactly. The trees and bushes cut grey, unearthly silhouettes against the sky. Beside him, Arthur’s profile is powder-soft. ‘You cold?’

Arthur’s hand is gripping the back of his shirt, pulling him back. ‘Don’t fall,’ Arthur says, amusement colouring his voice deep and inky. Gilbert falls backwards instead, and they tumble onto the grimy rooftop tiles in a tangle of limbs. Arthur’s laughing when Gilbert comes up for air. He presses his smile to Gilbert’s collarbone, electric and scalding.

Gilbert drapes his arm over Arthur’s back. He isn’t very drunk. He feels like it, though.

‘Are you staying over tonight? You’ve missed the last train.’

‘I can walk home,’ says Arthur carelessly. He sits up, draws his knees up to his chest and looks down at Gilbert, his pupils huge and dark. Away from the eyes of other people, Arthur’s mannerisms and posture are unselfconscious, almost sweet. ‘I don’t live very far away from school.’

‘But it’s so dark now. You’ll be okay?’

Arthur gives a lopsided shrug. Gilbert wants suddenly and very badly to know whether Arthur has dimples, like Antonio. He’s never seen Arthur smile wide enough to tell. Somehow he doubts it — Arthur’s brittleness goes all the way down to the bones of him. But it’s worth finding out.

‘Sometimes I spend the night at the airport.’

‘Huh,’ says Gilbert. ‘Why?’

Arthur looks up at the deep bruise-coloured sky for a second, thinking. The moon’s out, and it turns them blue; Gilbert covers its coin-shape with the pad of his thumb.

‘I used to study there for hours when Alfred and Matthew’s flights got delayed. I like how they’re always open—’

Gilbert grins. ‘McDonald’s —’

‘— and cafés and all the shops. There are so many people but they’re all going their own ways — Berlin, and Paris, and Japan and places all over the world — and they all look different, and they don’t bother you. I like watching the planes take off through those big windows.’

This is the closest to a whimsical habit Arthur’s ever admitted to having. It’s definitely the longest Gilbert’s ever heard him talk about himself. Gilbert files it away. Arthur’s eyes, up close, are so bright their colour gleams in the darkness. Gilbert can see the pale gold flecks of the irises, the insomnia stains under his eyes. He loves him so much it hurts and he doesn’t know why.

‘Arthur?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Why do you like me?’

Arthur always takes Gilbert seriously. Gilbert watches him turn the question over in his mind before settling on an answer.

‘I like how honest you are about yourself.’ He lays it out like a thesis statement. ‘Most people have a… a false front, you know, that they show people they don’t know very well. You don’t. You’re just the same, all the way through. I like how quickly you open up to people. I mean, not that you’re transparent in a pitiful way, you know. It’s just. Truthful, that’s all. And you hide your feelings yourself, but you’re very good at reading other people. I can tell you know what I’m about to say before I say it.’ Arthur looks at Gilbert, at Gilbert watching him, and continues. ‘And you tell yourself you’re bad at things but you’re really not. You’re the sort of person who’s good at anything if only you keep at it for long enough.’

‘Where’d you get that last one?’ says Gilbert, startled. ‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. The flute? Your brother keeps a photo of you on his bookshelf.’

‘Oh my god. _That_ one. I was ten.’

‘I thought it was cute.’

Gilbert reaches up and presses the backs of his curled fingers to Arthur’s lips. It’s a new gesture they’ve got now, trading not-kisses like air. Arthur shifts and bumps his nose gently against Gilbert’s palm.

‘You’re playing nice lately. Do you get it from Jones?’

‘Of course not.’ Arthur sounds insulted. ‘He learned it from me.’

‘Aren’t you going to ask why I like you?’

‘I don’t want to assume —’

‘ _Arthur_.’

‘I don’t want to know,’ says Arthur. ‘I’ve been wrong before.’

‘You’re not wrong this time. I’ve been… hold up, you really couldn’t tell?’

‘I wasn’t sure until we ended up as partners for maths. All right, I’ll bite. How long?’

‘Shit, I actually have no idea. Months?’

Arthur huffs out a short laugh, which is so unpolished that it must be entirely genuine.

‘You’re not exactly the type with self-restraint.’

‘Yeah, no, see, I’ve got no game, that’s the thing. I just thought… I thought you liked Antonio more than the thing you guys had going on. I thought you were more into him than he was into you.’

Arthur is silent. Gilbert realises suddenly that — if this were ever true — Arthur sure as hell wouldn’t tell him, and he goes a little cold.

‘Well,’ says Arthur in a different voice, ‘that’s over now. And here you are.’

‘I knew you from afar — liked you from afar — for a long time, I think.’

‘Okay,’ says Arthur softly, and this is so _unlike_ Arthur — all their cadences and speech patterns rubbing off on each other — that Gilbert’s chest tightens. He’s cold and he’s thinking about how easy it would be to take Arthur’s wrist in the soft midnight and turn him over, turn him down onto the rough, cool tiles. Arthur’s shirt is worn threadbare (he probably sleeps in it, this punk rock-loving loser), and the skin underneath must be satin and cool. He could feel Arthur shiver under the pads of his thumbs.

So he does. He pulls Arthur down to him by the front of that ratty T-shirt and Arthur, unfazed, leans in and his mouth is on Gilbert’s, liquid and warm. He tastes of beer, no surprise there, and when Gilbert turns his head a little he smells the unhealthy flush that heats Arthur’s cheeks. He’s gasping and tugging Arthur closer before he realises it.

Arthur straddles him easily and rests his elbows on either side of Gilbert’s head, supporting himself. This is easy and warm. It’s nothing like their clumsy first kiss or the numerous brief, unthinking small touches Arthur’s been stealing like candy. They’re a lot better at making out now. His hands are up the back of Arthur’s shirt, and Arthur’s breathing harshly, hot and sweet across the curve of Gilbert’s cheek, his bottom lip bitten candy-red.

‘You’re ridiculous,’ Arthur says, low and a little breathless. ‘Have you been listening to yourself? “I’ve got no game”, my arse. Do you _know_ how attractive you are?’

‘I spend most of my time around Antonio and Francis. It’s kind of screwed up my self-image.’

Arthur makes a derisive, disbelieving noise that warms Gilbert despite himself. Gilbert grips him round the waist a little tighter, watching Arthur press his lips together thoughtfully.

‘It’s a bit cold to get your clothes off, don’t you think?’

Gilbert slides his hand round to the back of Arthur’s neck, feeling the remnants of a fever tingle beneath his palm. No wonder Arthur never feels cold. Jesus. He’s going to drop dead sooner or later. ‘Arthur, come _on_.’

Arthur doesn’t understand — he ducks his head and noses at the hollow of Gilbert’s throat, moving his hips in a slow deliberate rocking motion. It’s an old pattern familiar to others but not Gilbert, well, familiar enough to him by now: Arthur drunk, Arthur feverish, Arthur wanting comfort and affection and sex from anyone who’ll give it to him. Arthur flattens his palm against the front of Gilbert’s slacks and Gilbert catches his wrists and pins them.

‘Arthur. Arthur, stop it.’

Arthur isn’t even half-hard. He stops, and sits back astride Gilbert; Gilbert lets go of his wrists and Arthur’s hands go to Gilbert’s, which have slipped back to Arthur’s waist. Arthur gives him a coolly puzzled look, not understanding. Then Gilbert sees the exact moment his expression changes.

‘Oh,’ says Arthur in a remarkably calm voice. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, I just —’

‘I’ll go,’ Arthur says, and is disappearing down the ladder before Gilbert’s brain catches up with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit my notes are out of control i just have a lot of Feelings
> 
> \- matthew is way more shy irl than he prob comes off here he’s the kid in the corner at parties kind of uncomfortably drinking punch and texting gilbert things like ‘save me’ and ‘should i just take the tray of brownies and make a run for it’  
> \- ludwig uses awkward emojis occasionally as conversation starters bc he is a Responsible Adult Who Can Master Texting, Sometimes. he also picked it up from feliciano who goes full-on passive-aggressive with the eyes-closed-smiley-blushing emoji YOU KNOW THE ONE  
> \- gilbert is?? conventionally better-looking than arthur in my headcanon, like he’s prob on the Would Bang lists of at least a couple of his classmates bc he’s tall and has nice bone structure and looks about 2 years older than his real age whereas arthur…..kind of has bad skin lmao i don’t mean severe acne i mean it’s dry and irritated-looking bc his cheeks are red from the wind and not drinking enough water and he has really dark undereye circles and basically you know from one look at him that he is a Tired Child and you just want to give him aloe vera and a hug and tell him to sleep for 14h


	7. it's safer not to look around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: things get explicit from this chapter onwards
> 
> chapter title from [there’s too much love by belle & sebastian](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jr4930v0yJI)

‘Yeah I know, I know this is creepy,’ he says in a rush, ‘like, push-me-out-of-the-window creepy. But then you’d break your phone.’

Arthur, hair in his eyes, has one hand on the window latch, a slow odd expression working itself onto his face. Gilbert straddles the thickest branch of the tree growing bad-temperedly beside the fence in Arthur’s back garden, just high enough to be level with Arthur’s window, his feet propped on the window sill. The chill’s sunk deep into his bones and he’s light-headed from the climb. This is as romantic as he’ll ever get.

‘It’s two in the morning.’

‘Yeah, you left your phone in the common room. And your books and stuff, I’ve got them here in a bag, it was hell trying to climb your fucking tree while carrying them, I can tell you.’

‘Come in off the ledge before you fall.’ Arthur gazes at the tree for a long moment. ‘You _do_ have an obsession with heights, don’t you?’

Dizzy with adrenaline and the cold, Gilbert sits down on Arthur’s bedroom floor. It’s cool under the soles of his feet and his palms, and he flattens his palms against the floor to steady himself. He can’t see a thing for several seconds. Then his eyes adjust to darkness and he can makes out the square of a desk heaped with clutter, a palely humming laptop plugged in by the door; posters tacked to the wall above Arthur’s headboard. Arthur doesn’t turn on the bedside lamp.

Arthur leans out of the window and looks around for a second or two before he yanks it shut.

‘Question.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Only I’m curious, mind you,’ Arthur says. ‘How long did you wait around to see which window was mine?’

‘Not long! I’m the best at this.’

‘I wouldn’t give you points for stealth. Your banging on my window could wake the dead.’ Arthur snorts a little, in bemusement, and turns to take the bag full of books and his phone from Gilbert. He sets them on his bedside table, looking alien and still in the dull moonlight. Gilbert can’t read the expression on Arthur’s face, and it unnerves him; they should be able to understand each other by now. All those unspoken words pile up in the corners of the room.

‘I can’t believe you sometimes.’

‘What?’ Gilbert is tired, and tired of thinking; he leans his head against the window sill. He’s keeping a wary distance. ‘I got your address from Francis. Then I used Google Maps.’

‘You walked all the way here in the dark.’

Arthur’s still using that light, polite voice which says: _one false move and I strike you dead._ He’s in the same soft old shirt which snugly covers his hips, but he’s down to boxers for bed. Gilbert glances, and has to glance away, and feels Arthur feeling the weight of his gaze. The night air’s cold as balls. He closes his eyes.

‘So did you.’

‘Yes,’ replies Arthur with exaggerated patience, ‘but I live here.’

‘Yeah, and?’ He sighs and holds out his hand. ‘Come here for a sec?’

Arthur comes closer with a studiedly neutral expression, toes scrunching on the icy floor. He touches his fingertips to Gilbert’s palm and Gilbert turns his hand over and presses his lips to the inside of Arthur’s wrist, and then Arthur’s on the floor beside him and he’s kissing the side of Arthur’s mouth and tasting Arthur’s long exhale.

‘I’m sorry. I’m stupid.’

‘No, you’re not,’ Arthur says automatically. Gilbert loathes himself and his own self-loathing. God help him.

‘Shut up and let me finish.’ He breathes in: Arthur’s clean and freshly showered, and the soap-soft scent is enough to undo him. ‘I thought it was just like before, you know, you kissing me because I was there —’

Arthur yells at Alfred Jones a lot but his facial expressions are precise, minute things when something strikes a nerve. Gilbert doesn’t want to see the champagne shadows of Arthur’s eyes shift into something different. He sets his chin on Arthur’s shoulder, instead.

‘I don’t know how to show I’m not using you,’ says Arthur. His vowels are crisply defined. Words have always been Arthur’s tools. Gilbert hates himself for making Arthur bare everything like this, for humiliating him. ‘You’ll just have to take my word for it, I’m afraid. I’m not —’

‘Yeah, I know.’ Gilbert buries his hands deep in that cotton-soft shirt, worn so thin in places that he can see the sharp curve of Arthur’s hips through the fabric. Arthur catches on quickly and lets Gilbert drag it over his head, nipping lightly at Gilbert’s jaw. His skin is salt-speckled in the moonlight, dark with scars and freckles. Gilbert would rather cut him off in the middle of a sentence — hell, cut his own hand off — than let this go any further. ‘Sorry. I trust you.’

‘No, you don’t.’

He can’t say anything to that. He doesn’t think Arthur sounds particularly hurt or surprised — still, he catches Arthur’s face in his hands and kisses him properly. Arthur, never one to let somebody else take the lead for long, kisses back after a momentary pause that seems to go on forever. His mouth is warm and chewed tender. Gilbert watches Arthur’s eyes shutter, than shut. Gilbert breathes and Arthur makes a small, pleased humming noise and then his teeth are grazing Gilbert’s bottom lip and his hands cupping the back of Gilbert’s head, thumb stroking firmly over the base of Gilbert’s skull. The floor must be cold under Arthur’s knees, for he shifts and leans further into the kiss, into Gilbert, night-blind and bold, scraping his fingernails over Arthur’s hipbones.

‘Come on,’ Arthur says after a few moments. He gets up and pulls Gilbert to his feet as well by the front of his shirt. ‘It’s warmer in bed.’

‘That’s a terrible fucking line.’

‘Do you want to or not?’ Arthur’s eyes — always intense in their colour, and twice as much in this light — are a little wary, a little unhappy. ‘We needn’t do anything you don’t like. I’m sorry that it wasn’t clear.’

‘No! No, Jesus, of course you can. Did you think I’d push you off the roof?’

‘I thought you’d jump.’ Arthur laughs a little, although it’s not very funny, and pulls Gilbert forward by the wrist. ‘I’m sorry. I tried not to cock it up. I can’t do relationships. I do try.’

‘Stop it.’ Gilbert puts his palm over Arthur’s mouth to silence him. ‘Stop apologising so much. It doesn’t suit you.’

Arthur bumps his nose against Gilbert’s hand, a petulant unthinking gesture. Gilbert promptly pushes him down onto the warm bedclothes — drops his hand and kisses Arthur’s nose and says, ‘It’s okay.’ It’s not, but Gilbert is a good liar. ‘You’re okay.’

They’ve been kissing for what feels like hours, and they’re both half-hard from these heavy minutes, breathing, grinning. ‘Hey. Hey, listen.’ Arthur’s voice is very quiet. Gilbert has to lean in to hear him. ‘I wouldn’t do that to you. You’re not just — I mean, you’re not all that convenient, come to think of it, so why would I —’

‘Uh-huh,’ Gilbert says.

‘Shut up and let me finish.’ Arthur’s lips curl back over his teeth. He brushes the backs of his fingers idly over Gilbert’s cheek, considering what to say. Sappy declarations aren’t exactly Arthur’s style. And he’s more tactile than Gilbert’s thought all this time; Gilbert’s noticed Arthur always needs to be touching him while he’s thinking. In the end Arthur settles for, ‘I appreciate you very much.’

‘That’s more like it.’

This is the best Gilbert’s ever going to have. He’ll settle for that. He doesn’t say anything back. He can’t. He kisses Arthur hard instead, sweat and stars under his tongue.

Arthur pushes him off easily and sits up, readjusting their tangle of limbs, pressing upwards into the unmistakable heat digging into his thigh. Gilbert flicks his tongue at the studs in Arthur’s left ear and Arthur laughs. ‘I want to suck you off.’

‘I’m sorry, what?’

Arthur raises an eyebrow. ‘Francis was right.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ Gilbert says, remembering. ‘It’s my turn now. I’m talking like you.’

‘Yes, it’s horrible. One of me is more than enough.’ Arthur rolls over onto his stomach, all sharp elbows and sharp, knowing eyes. ‘You can say something sentimental now. You’ve been dying to for the past half-hour.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Fine, I’ll bite. _Ich liebe dich_.’

Arthur doesn’t have dimples after all — his face is too thin, too angular. But Gilbert’s never seen him smile so wide. ‘Even I know what that means.’

‘I know you do.’ He reaches down and snaps the waistband of Arthur’s boxers, just to be a shit. Arthur smacks him on the knee. ‘Smart boy.’

Calmly Arthur presses his cheek against the slice of exposed skin where Gilbert’s T-shirt rides up. ‘Do you, though?’

‘Sure, why not?’ says Gilbert, not really thinking about it. He’s simple about his emotions, not guarded like Arthur is. He doesn’t have time for that shit. He loves the people he chooses — Ludwig, Elizabeta, Kiku — and it’s just a way of knowing someone. He’s absorbed in the ways he can learn Arthur: undiscovered and tender things like the dust-soft insides of Arthur’s elbows, the rawness under his eyes. He has never felt so comfortable being known before.

It gives Arthur pause. ‘Well,’ he says at last. He shifts and nuzzles, catlike, at the bulge in Gilbert’s slacks. It’s distracting and Gilbert fists one hand in the back of Arthur’s shirt warningly. ‘That… that means a lot, actually.’

‘Yeah, okay, that’s enough sap for tonight, I just —’

‘I mean, you are a bit of a dickhead —’

‘That’s true.’

‘— but so am I —’

‘That’s also true.’

‘Hush, you,’ Arthur says, but he’s fighting to hide his smile. ‘Can I suck you off? You can say no, obviously, it’s just, I’m just, I’m just putting it out there.’

‘Christ.’ Gilbert leans against the headboard. Arthur looks him up and down, a high flush rising in his cheeks. ‘If I’d known I was getting a blowjob, I’d have eaten a pineapple before coming here.’

Arthur stops trying to get Gilbert’s zipper down with his teeth, because he’s a filthy show-off, and gives Gilbert a long baffled look.

‘An entire pineapple?’

‘The whole fucking thing,’ Gilbert clarifies.

‘Your dedication is touching. I’ll make it good.’ Arthur hums a little, tugging Gilbert’s boxers down. ‘Raise your hips, please.’

‘You must want it bad for that to be the first thing you ask. How long’ve you been thinking about this?’

At the sight of Gilbert’s erection Arthur sits back on his heels and says, ‘Ah,’ in deep satisfaction. ‘Maybe a while.’

Gilbert laughs a little helplessly and Arthur gives him this slow glorious shit-eating grin and wraps his hand around the base of Gilbert’s cock, stroking experimentally at first, then firmer, with easy rhythm. He presses his lips together. Gilbert winds his fingers into Arthur’s dusty hair and tugs; Arthur comes closer indulgently, grinding down into Gilbert’s thigh and murmuring with pleasure.

‘Arthur?’

‘Hmm?’

‘That time on the bus, when you said you’d dump Antonio because you liked someone else. Was that me?’

‘Oh,’ says Arthur, dragging Gilbert’s cock slickly through his fist. He leans down to mouth along the length of it, breath long and wet. Gilbert digs his heels into the bedclothes. ‘Yeah, that. Listen, you’ve really got to leave off this thing about Antonio. It was nothing. He wasn’t my fucking _boyfriend_ , all right? I know you’re very good friends and you care a lot about Antonio and don’t want to upset him but Antonio never cared much about me, I can tell you. Now shut up and let me blow you.’

‘Okay.’ Gilbert swallows everything that builds up behind his teeth, and focuses on everything else: the satin curve of Arthur’s cheek, Arthur’s thumb circling the head. ‘Off you go, soldier.’

Arthur shoots him a supremely unimpressed glance and dips his head and swallows Gilbert’s cock in one smooth practised motion. Gilbert’s hips jerk up involuntarily. Arthur smacks him again for that.

‘Shhh,’ says Arthur, not irritated, pulling back and licking a fat decadent stripe from base to tip. Eyes on Gilbert’s face, he turns a little to let the head of Gilbert’s cock rub against his cheek, where it leaves a slender trail of moisture. ‘Not bad. Could use more pineapple.’

‘Fuck you,’ Gilbert says, laughing. Arthur hums and ducks back down again and Gilbert tangles both hands in Arthur’s hair, not bothering to be gentle. Arthur can take it. Arthur takes him all the way down, in fact, letting Gilbert fuck his throat for a few generous seconds before shoving Gilbert’s hips back down and holding Gilbert in place with unsurprising strength. It’s good, and very warm — the blankets are heavy and warm — and Gilbert can feel the weight of himself, velvety and full on Arthur’s tongue. He tugs on Arthur’s hair just as a test and Arthur makes a low, hungry sound. Then Arthur digs his nails hard into the skin just above Gilbert’s waist as warning or punishment, because Arthur likes it rough but he won’t let anyone manhandle him. This is Gilbert’s favourite thing about Arthur. One of his favourite things. Arthur looks good like this, skin flushed against the moon-soaked bedclothes, burning and damp and letting Gilbert’s cock hit the back of his throat.

When Gilbert’s head smacks against the headboard for a second time Arthur lifts his head, eyes dark and mouth all glossy, and snaps: ‘Do you want to wake up my brothers? They’re right across the hall, you know.’

‘I beg your fucking pardon, it’s not like I’ve done this before!’

‘I’d hit you,’ Arthur tells him, unfairly coherent — there’s a line pearly-wet to the blood-rich swell of his bottom lip and he sounds loose and wrecked — ‘but that would kill your hard-on and I’m not prepared to sacrifice it.’

In fact, it might make him harder. Arthur, reading his face, says: ‘Good lord.’

‘Shut it.’

‘I knew it. You’d get off on it.’ Arthur’s hoarse already; it might’ve been five minutes, it might’ve been twenty. Moonlight glints high on his cheekbones. Gilbert threads his fingers into Arthur’s hair again, not quite a caress, his other hand spread flat and soothing over the jut of Arthur’s shoulderblades. Gilbert scratches lightly at Arthur’s scalp and Arthur snorts out something like a laugh, which sends a little puff of warm air unbearably close to Gilbert’s cock.

‘That tickles.’

‘You okay?’

‘The fuck’s the matter with you? Get over here.’

‘Okay,’ Gilbert says, and tugs Arthur down again, none too gently. Arthur’s breath hitches when Gilbert presses the heel of his palm into the swell of Arthur’s cheek, where Gilbert’s cock fits sweetly against his soft palate. Arthur’s jaw must be aching and he moans a little, hums, even, sending vibrations sparking all electric up Gilbert’s spine.

‘I’m —’

Arthur pushes forward, nose snug against Gilbert’s pelvic bone and his eyelashes lying all damp and heavy on his cheek. Gilbert comes with his fist in his mouth; he tries not to make a sound and he’s pretty sure he fails, but you’ve got to appreciate the effort.

Arthur pulls off with a look of grim triumph, hair and mouth a mess, and kisses the tip nonsensically.

‘Wait,’ Gilbert says, way too high, after the world has righted itself. He catches Arthur’s wrists and pulls him close. He can see the dark flush of Arthur’s cock poking above the waistband of his boxers. ‘Come here.’

Startled, Arthur hisses. He’s got come leaking from the corners of his mouth; his mouth is swollen and wet and Gilbert kisses it harshly, tasting himself. He cups the curve of Arthur’s arse, thumb slipping between the cheeks to brush the hint of heat there. ‘This okay?’

Arthur is shy about being touched himself. Gilbert can feel the thick urgent warmth of Arthur’s cock at the juncture of their thighs, where their legs tangle with the sheets and each other. He lets go of Arthur’s hands and slides down to hold his waist instead. Gilbert can taste the salt-wet pulse at Arthur’s throat, fluttering white with sudden anxiety. He asks, almost scared, ‘Can I?’

Arthur feels like a spooked animal under his hands, where Gilbert’s palm presses to hot skin. But he nods yes.

Gilbert turns Arthur around. Moonlight is a long tongue slanting across them. He buries his face in Arthur’s shoulder; Arthur exhales, sounding a little like relief, and Gilbert takes him in hand, jerking him off a bit clumsily, but learning how he likes it from the way Arthur gasps. He drags his thumbnail along the side of Arthur’s cock and Arthur _whimpers_.

‘Okay.’

‘Okay, what?’

It’s good to hear Arthur’s voice. ‘Shit, I have to… look, I have to get my mouth on you, okay? You mind?’

Arthur burrows a little further into the blankets in anticipation. He runs his tongue over his lips. ‘All right.’

Gilbert smiles without thinking. He takes Arthur’s arse in his hands, nails digging into Arthur’s waist. ‘You’ve got a really nice arse.’

‘I _know_ ,’ says Arthur, impatient. ‘Get on with it.’

‘Bastard.’ He blows softly over Arthur’s balls from behind. Arthur inhales very quietly. ‘You like that?’

‘Could be better.’ Then Arthur’s voice sharpens: ‘Spank me and I’ll kick you. Trust me, I will.’

Gilbert bites the curve of his hip instead. Arthur muffles the noise he makes into the pillow. ‘How about that?’

‘I don’t think your play for dominance is quite working out,’ says Arthur thoughtfully. ‘I’ll give you a B for effort, though. Try another tack.’

Gilbert flattens his tongue against the tight pucker of Arthur’s hole and Arthur jolts forward. ‘ _Christ_.’

Gilbert grins against him, letting him feel it. ‘Scoot forward a little.’

Arthur obliges, spreading his knees and bracing himself with one hand on the headboard. Gilbert presses a long, sucking kiss to Arthur’s hole and then replaces his mouth with his thumb, rubbing in the spit there. Arthur curses.

‘Keep it down, will you? You want to wake up your brothers? They’re right across the hall.’

‘I’m going to _kill you_ —’

Gilbert takes his time about it, working Arthur loose with long deliberate licks and then his thumb, pushing in deep and steady. It’s when he’s got Arthur opened up enough to slide both thumbs in, forcing his tongue in between them, that he notices Arthur is barely making a sound, though there are fine tremors all along his shoulders.

Gilbert pulls back. Arthur makes an involuntary noise of protest.

‘You’re so quiet.’

‘Fuck you.’

Gilbert snorts. He kisses the inside of Arthur’s thigh. ‘Are you always this quiet?’

Arthur says reasonably, ‘We’re fucking in my parents’ house.’

‘Wait, are you even out to your parents?’

‘My parents don’t care what I am as long as I’m not a communist.’

‘So that’s a no?’

Arthur does kick him then, not very hard. ‘Stop talking.’

Gilbert licks at him again, slow enough to let the rapidly drying saliva there cool. ‘Okay, _you_ talk to me. What do you like, huh?’

‘Fingers,’ Arthur says at once, and then, ‘more, please.’

Gilbert blows hot air over Arthur’s hole, saliva-damp and swollen now, and Arthur swears through gritted teeth. ‘Say that again.’

He can feel Arthur radiating exasperation. ‘Say what again?’

‘Say “please”. You don’t ever say that to me, it’s nice. I want to hear it again.’

‘ _For fuck’s sake_ ,’ Arthur rasps, as Gilbert knew he would. ‘Get over here or I’ll do it myself.’

He slips his middle finger in up to the knuckle. Arthur sucks in a breath. ‘You’re such a fucking nuisance.’

‘That’s why you love me.’

‘You’re never letting that go, are you?’

‘For what it’s worth, Mr. Emotions-Are-For-Children,’ and Gilbert can hear the capital letters in his voice, Jesus Christ, ‘your feelings are not entirely one-sided.’

‘My tongue is in your arse right now. They better be fucking mutual.’

‘How can it be where you say it is if you’re still talking — _fuck_ you, you are the worst —’

Arthur keens into the pillow when Gilbert curls his fingers just right. Arthur is so wet now that Gilbert can slide three fingers in easily, rocking into him, tongue swiping over that searing heat. Arthur comes like a tide breaking, completely silent, knuckles turning white on the headboard.

Afterwards, Gilbert drags himself upwards and presses his lips to the rough patch of skin behind Arthur’s earlobe. Arthur makes a soft, shocked, pained sound when Gilbert pushes two fingers back into him, all sore and overstimulated, just to see Arthur’s toes curl. Gilbert’s fucking exhausted. Arthur is, too, but not too far gone to thread his fingers into Gilbert’s hair, sifting through the strands idly.

Moonlight settles on the foot of the bed and pools on the floor. There’s the unmistakable smell of sex. Arthur has Gilbert worked into his skin, behind his teeth; Arthur’s got Gilbert wrapped around his little finger, to tell the truth.

‘Don’t stop,’ Gilbert says sharply when the pads of Arthur’s fingers pause in their quiet exploration. Arthur moves to cup the back of Gilbert’s head in one hand, rubbing small circles into Gilbert’s scalp, and Gilbert tucks his face into the curve of Arthur’s neck with a sigh.

Arthur murmurs something Gilbert doesn’t catch.

‘Hmm?’

‘I said you’ll still keep your looks when you get old. You have marvellous… bone structure.’

 _I’m not going to live that long_ , Gilbert almost says, on reflex, but catches himself. ‘Fuck, and here I was thinking you’d say I have a beautiful soul.’

He feels the stretch of Arthur’s smile, sees it in his head without looking. ‘That too, maybe.’

He stays the night because of course he does.

* * *

_WhatsApp, 4:36pm_

**Matt:** yooo

 **Matt:** Francis told me to ask you if you hooked up with Arthur last weekend

 **You:** no he didnt

 **Matt:** ok no he didn’t but he IMPLIED IT

 **Matt:** DAMN SON

 **Matt:** when I told you to go bang Arthur I didn’t think you would actually go and do it

 **You:** ok

 **You:** 1\. you know im gonna take everything as a challenge unless you explicitly say not to

 **Matt:** fuck dude don’t do the numbering texting thing, I hate it when Arthur does that

 **You:** 2\. do i look like the kind of guy to kiss and tell

 **Matt:** yes

 **Matt:** yes Gilbert, you do

 **You:** true

* * *

‘Oh. Hello,’ Arthur says, at the end of his history lecture. ‘Bringing me tea? You’re quite the little housewife, aren’t you?’

‘Fuck off,’ says Gilbert, with a small smitten smile, and Arthur takes the paper cup of hot tea from him and ducks under Gilbert’s arm on their way out of the auditorium. The tea’s steaming and sweet, and far too hot to drink now, but it’s good warmth on a day like this. The wind bites into Arthur’s face and hands, and Gilbert’s in the old hoodie Arthur suspects he wears for weeks on end. They take the staircase that cuts sideways into the wide hallway, and Arthur can hear Lin Yi Ling and a few other girls laughing behind them but he doesn’t care. Why should he care?

Gilbert watches him with a kind of possessive wariness. The scrutiny grounds him. Arthur takes a careful sip, fingers precisely poised. ‘Are your classes over?’

Gilbert shrugs. ‘Yeah, more or less.’

Arthur knows how to read into that. He doesn’t comment on Gilbert’s habit of skipping lectures; he never has. They’ve been studying together anyway, during this mad run-up to finals, in the comfort of Gilbert’s dorm room. It’s productive but Arthur invariably ends up climbing into Gilbert’s lap at some point and fitting his mouth to the cleanly purpling bruises just under the edge of Gilbert’s collar. Gilbert wears them casually, probably doesn’t think about them much.

Arthur quickens his steps when he spots Zwingli waving to get his attention. It’s something about the seniors’ graduation day (Zwingli is deputy-head-prefect-to-be, and ruthlessly efficient about it), and Gilbert hangs back without so much as a second glance, pausing to study the display in the nearest sandwich machine. Gilbert has recently brought it to Arthur’s attention that what Arthur thinks of as his resting face is more like an “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t breathe near me” resting murder face. Gilbert apparently has no idea that he himself looks just as intimidating from the outside, if not more so. At least Arthur makes an effort to be gracious about things. Gilbert has shit to do and no patience for people who stop him from doing it.

When he’s done with Zwingli Arthur just has to turn a little, one hand in his pocket and the other still holding his tea, and catches Gilbert’s eye almost immediately. He can pick Gilbert out of any crowd; the corridor’s rather empty, at any rate. He whistles like you’d do for a dog and is rewarded with Gilbert’s exasperated look.

‘We’ve got to go out and do something after finals,’ says Gilbert, catching up easily to Arthur with his longer strides. ‘This is fucking depressing. All we ever do is study. Like, let’s go catch a movie, dinner, I don’t know.’

‘Proper boyfriend stuff.’

‘Hmm? We’re not boyfriends. You’d be a terrible boyfriend.’

‘Of course I would,’ Arthur agrees, trying not to show how he’s been stung. He finishes his drink and tosses the empty cup into a nearby garbage bin. ‘Not that I’ll ever have the chance to prove you right. When’s your first paper?’

‘Next Tuesday.’ Gilbert’s face settles into cool, neutral lines. ‘Studying in school today?’

‘No, I was thinking I’d come over. Do you mind?’

‘Sure.’

Antonio joins them after dinner, his body language cool and relaxed as he takes over the window seat with his practice papers and textbooks. He barely bats an eyelid at Arthur’s presence in Gilbert’s room. Arthur is not sure what to do with the fact that their dynamic is changing, that they’re shifting to include him. Like the rest of the school, Arthur is used to seeing these three as a unit, Francis-Antonio-Gilbert: wolf-whistling at each other across the quad, Antonio’s arm slung over Francis’ shoulders and Francis laughing helplessly at something Gilbert’s said. It doesn’t matter that Antonio and Francis are in different classes or that Gilbert’s in a different year. They are a forever alliance.

‘Where’s Francis?’ Arthur asks at around seven p.m. when he returns from a trip to the bathroom. Gilbert looks up from his physics lecture notes, eyes blank with concentration. Arthur isn’t arrogant enough to think that he’s a good influence, but he does get the impression that having Arthur around makes Gilbert feel better when Gilbert’s trying to work. He likes seeing Gilbert like this, alert and calculating.

‘Francis went for an evening run. You’ll find him at the track, you know, listening to “Partition” by Beyoncé on repeat and worrying about his uni applications.’

‘That,’ Arthur says, ‘is probably extremely accurate. But I’m not looking for Francis. I just want to know how he’s been. Don’t tell him I asked.’

‘We won’t,’ Antonio promises, golden and amused in the curve of the window. Outside, the sky is dusky violet. Arthur wonders briefly if he’ll meet Gilbert’s brother; he doesn’t know what time Mr Beilschmidt leaves school. He doesn’t know their routine. ‘Francis is stressed but I think he’ll be fine.’

‘He’s Francis — come on, _you_ know. I haven’t seen him eat dinner in like three days.’

Arthur starts. ‘Well, do something about it.’

‘You can’t fight Francis, man,’ Antonio says. ‘I mean, _you_ can, because it’s you. But we don’t have the energy.’

Gilbert hasn’t had the energy to answer his texts for weeks. Arthur sees him check his phone and put it away without replying to people all the time. Arthur is not sure how concerned he’s supposed to be at this point.

‘Yeah, we changed his WhatsApp status to “oui oui baguette eiffel tower” and he still hasn’t noticed. I’m thinking this is a stage two, right, Antonio?’

‘Stage two out of five,’ Antonio explains to Arthur.

‘What’s stage five?’

‘No, no. It’s like DEFCON.’ Antonio stretches and yawns. ‘Stage _one_ is intervention-levels of Francis-stress. Stage five is just the normal shit, like him spending way too much time on his fucking Powerpoint slides for some class presentation.’

Arthur is surprised; he’s always thought of Francis’ time management as impeccable. But of course Francis is an incurable perfectionist. ‘Can’t you cook him something?’

‘Okay, yeah, good idea. But you’ll have to make him eat it. You’ve got the most stamina out of all us where Francis is concerned.’

‘Stamina for what?’ Francis comes into the room and closes the door behind him. He’s flushed from his run and the shower, his hair still wet, clinging to the back of his neck and soaked a darker shade of gold.

Arthur says: ‘You need to get your hair cut again.’

Francis shakes his head. ‘It looks longer when it’s wet.’ He plucks mournfully at his T-shirt, which has a dark stain spreading down the front. ‘I made coffee after my shower and spilled it on myself, and my laundry isn’t done yet, I am so _stupid_.’

‘Christ, Francis.’ Gilbert puts down his pen. ‘Did you burn yourself?’

‘No, no, it was iced coffee.’

‘Take my shirt.’ From the window, Antonio waves a hand expansively. ‘I mean — not the one I’m wearing. I’ve got a couple of shirts here, I think.’

‘Thank you,’ Francis says, fishing a faded cotton T-shirt out of the bottom of Gilbert’s wardrobe. He drags the back of his hand over his eyes. ‘I heard my name. What were you talking about?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ says Gilbert, in case Arthur gives the game away. ‘Just that it’s funny how you actually do some kind of physical activity regularly. We thought you’d have ascended to a higher plane of existence by now.’

‘Stop going for runs in the dark, you idiot. You’ll trip over something and break your face.’

‘I do not care,’ says Francis magnificently. He steps round the corner of the wardrobe, just barely out of sight, and pulls his ruined shirt over his head. It’s now dark outside and very warm inside the room and this is all strangely domestic. ‘There are other kinds of physical activity which are far more enjoyable. Arthur, I can feel you looking.’

‘I am not.’

‘You’re both gross,’ Gilbert says. ‘You too, Antonio. You’re all gross. Has that shirt even been washed? I can’t remember when Antonio left it here. I bet it smells like weed.’

‘It probably does,’ Antonio agrees cheerfully.

Francis, putting on Antonio’s shirt, raises a perfectly arched eyebrow at them. ‘It smells clean enough.’

For support Gilbert looks at Arthur, who asks, ‘How do you two live with yourselves?’

‘We don’t. At least, I don’t.’ Antonio gets off the ledge and pads across the floor, stepping on Arthur’s scattered papers and his own with glorious unconcern. Some of Arthur’s textbooks and old essays have slipped to the floor, even though he’s using Ludwig’s desk; Gilbert allows only Arthur to use his brother’s desk and no one else, because Arthur’s the neatest. ‘Oh! Is this Arthur’s legendary one-page lit essay?’

‘What legendary essay?’

‘Yeah, which one?’ Gilbert says, and high-fives Antonio.

Francis sits down on Gilbert’s bed and leans over Antonio’s shoulder to look. ‘Oh, no, Arthur did not write this. It’s not sarcastic enough.’

‘Sod off, both of you,’ Arthur says.

‘What did _I_ do?’ demands Antonio.

* * *

_WhatsApp, 9:18pm_

**Alfred:** hey art

 **Alfred:** is this sat study session still on?? bc if not i gotta let kiku know

 **You:** ? Yes it is

 **You:** Why wouldn’t it be?

 **Alfred:** idk you’ve been hanging out with beilschmidt and francis a lot lately

 **You:** That doesn’t change anything

 **Alfred:** yep HAHA don’t worry about it

 **You:** Alfred

 **Alfred:** nah it’s cool dude

 **Alfred:** it’s cool!! rly

 **You:** Really really?

 **Alfred:** rly rly

* * *

Antonio and Francis leave around ten o’clock; they’ve been sleeping a lot earlier lately, gearing up for the month and a half of three-hour exams ahead of them. Gilbert shuffles his papers to one side and leans on his elbow, index finger and thumb braced against his browbone. His eyes hurt. It all feels like too much lately, not finals but the people around him, and he’s tight and alone.

Arthur says, ‘Done for the day?’

Gilbert raises his head. ‘Yeah. You?’

Arthur looks as hollowed-out as Gilbert feels, an ink-stamped imprint of a boy. They’re both so inadequate in different ways and the same, and — god, he shouldn’t think that about Arthur. Arthur is competent and fine. Gilbert’s an asshole.

Arthur sets his stationery neatly on top of his foolscap pad and comes over. Gilbert’s nursing a headache but he’s always happy to have Arthur in his lap, and he puts both hands on Arthur’s waist.

‘Whoa, okay.’ He kisses Arthur’s nose. Arthur kisses his. ‘What do you want, huh?’

Arthur pauses, considering. ‘Can I stay over?’

‘Sure. Your parents won’t mind?’

‘Like they’d notice.’ Arthur pushes his mouth against Gilbert’s throat, making his intentions clear. ‘Come on, just —’

‘Are you just upset about something or do you actually want to have sex?’

‘Don’t ask stupid questions.’

Gilbert shuts his eyes and lets the wave of anger wash over him. He’s being unreasonable. Everything feels like lightning on the insides of his eyelids. When he’s sure he isn’t going to say something he’ll regret, he tilts his mouth up to Arthur’s. ‘Can I fuck you?’

Arthur smiles for the first time. Gilbert loves him more than anything. ‘Ask nicely.’

‘You’re full of shit,’ says Gilbert, fond. Arthur perches birdlike atop his thighs, drowsy and content as a prince. ‘Okay, fine. Please?’

‘I’ll think about it.’

He rucks Arthur’s T-shirt up and scrapes his fingernails along Arthur’s back as he kisses him. Arthur snorts and pushes nearer, hands in Gilbert’s hair. He’s very warm; Gilbert can taste the heat coming off his skin in waves. Blue night settles into the trees outside. It’s luxurious and cool, here, and Gilbert wants to climb into the space between Arthur’s bones. It’s like being drunk.

They’re in a silent competition to see who can get more aggressive in bed when pushed. They’ll never acknowledge it. Arthur likes touching Gilbert’s face for some reason, likes looking at him — he runs a thumb along the jut of Gilbert’s cheekbone. Gilbert palms Arthur’s arse abruptly, rocking up into that friction, and Arthur accidentally-on-purpose digs his heel into Gilbert’s knee hard enough to hurt.

He has Arthur gasping in minutes. Arthur pulls back, saying, ‘Okay. Okay,’ and grins.

‘Get on the bed, you,’ Gilbert says, and shoves him off. Arthur laughs; he says something like _yes sir_ , and Gilbert flicks his side with a fingernail.

He takes his time undressing, because it doesn’t take a genius to figure out Arthur likes to watch him undoing his jeans. Arthur likes to keep his own shirt on, but he’s left his jeans and boxers in a heap on the floor and he’s sprawled on his stomach, the blankets rumpled beneath him, watching Gilbert with interested eyes. Gilbert gets on the bed. Arthur’s exhale is damp, pleased. Gilbert swallows it.

‘Right,’ says Arthur. He’s slow and uneven and too warm, sitting astride Gilbert’s hips. ‘Move a bit, please,’ and he’s leaning over the side of the bed to fumble with his discarded jeans. The loss of his hand on Gilbert’s cock is kind of a pain, but Arthur shifts hard against him considerately and then he’s come up with lubricant and a little foil square.

‘Christ. You carry that everywhere with you?’

Arthur swears and shakes the tube. ‘No I don’t, I _planned_ this, all right, don’t let that go to your head if you can help it.’

Gilbert opens his mouth and Arthur promptly pushes his fingers into it. Gilbert sucks on them with sounds purposely obscene; Arthur looks down at him with eyelashes trembling forest-gold.

‘You’re not too bad at this.’

‘ _Thanks_ ,’ says Gilbert, deadpan, but it comes out garbled around Arthur’s fingers. Arthur pulls his hand back with a smirk. He’s got the tube working at last, and squeezes its contents generously over his saliva-wet fingers, reaching back to push in two at once, brutal on himself. Arthur likes it that way; Gilbert kisses him with more bite and is rewarded with a shiver. The evening’s quiet and dim around them.

‘Planned? Well, as far as seductions go, you’re not too bad yourself,’ Gilbert says. Then, as Arthur opens his eyes and looks down at Gilbert, pink flooding down his neck with three fingers into himself, ‘You’re too subtle for me. Put your back into it.’

‘ _Fuck_ off,’ Arthur says, but he’s laughing breathily. Gilbert sits up, cock brushing the planes of Arthur’s stomach and gasping at the point of contact. Arthur seats himself properly, rocking against Gilbert for a tantalising second. ‘All right. Here.’

Gilbert is very efficient.

Arthur’s lifting upwards, pressing wet on his thigh — grins approval into Gilbert’s hair. ‘Please don’t try to tear open the condom with your teeth. That never works.’

‘Wasn’t going to,’ he lies.

Arthur scoffs but braces himself with one hand on Gilbert’s shoulder, helps slick him. Then he’s lowering himself with a small gasp, mouth falling open a little at the stretch of it; works his hips round slowly, testing.

Gilbert’s new and aching and his brain short-circuits for a second or two. And he’s blinking against Arthur’s cheek and looking at Arthur, at the faint discomfort of Arthur’s expression. He feels full and warm and Arthur must be fuller. Arthur’s breathing is harsh and needy. The slide of skin on skin and air trapped between them is unbearable.

‘Um,’ he manages. ‘More lube?’

‘Enough.’ Arthur, pliant now, fever-flushed, allows himself to be pulled. ‘Takes some getting used to.’

He slides a hand up Arthur’s shirt and watches Arthur’s eyelids flutter in pleasure.

‘Sure?’

‘Yeah.’ Arthur’s cock is wet and neglected, but he slaps Gilbert’s hands away. ‘Don’t.’

‘Ha, who’s bossy now?’

Arthur holds him down with iron stubbornness and sets up his own rhythm, bright-eyed and merciless. He’s thorough — nearly reseating himself every time, mouth clamped tight enough to shatter. He’s tight. Gilbert gives in to the desire to bury his face in Arthur’s neck and goes searching out the pulse, licking at the sweat gathering there.

‘You’re lucky,’ says Arthur, sounding wrecked already, ‘to have me.’ His scent is heady and clean. Gilbert snaps his hips upwards, closes his teeth over the noise Arthur makes.

‘Tell me why.’

‘Make it worth your while,’ Arthur offers, voice all over the place. Softer now, fucking himself with long slow relish, he adds: ‘ _ungrateful_.’

Gilbert wraps his hand around the base of Arthur’s cock and squeezes, holding off the climax. He’s discovered it’s possible to make out too much. His mouth is sore; Arthur is breathing into it, making a sound like keening, urging ragged noises from him.

‘What, don’t you remember your first time?’

‘I wish I didn’t.’ Almost affectionately Arthur asks, ‘You never do stop talking, do you?’

‘I can make porn star noises if you want. Really improves the mood.’

‘Try it and I’ll kill you,’ comes out more like a plea than Arthur probably intended. He slows deliberately, torturing himself, and smirks at Gilbert’s ‘ _motherfucker_ — hurry _up_.’

‘Don’t see why I should,’ Arthur says, clearly finding _make me_ too clichéd even for them. ‘I’m enjoying myself just fine.’

‘I can fucking see that.’

‘In all seriousness —’ Arthur, tongue darting between his teeth, is trying to tease moans out of Gilbert. ‘— what would your brother do if he walked in on us?’

‘He’d turn red and walk right out again,’ Gilbert says, ‘and then he’d try to discreetly make sure I’m using protection. He’d leave the box of condoms next to the sausages at breakfast. You know, to be sure I’d know what they’re for.’

Arthur groans. He’s close: Gilbert can feel Arthur’s muscles tense, the fine glistening of his throat and temples. He licks Arthur’s mouth open. ‘I knew I was right not to take physics.’

‘By the way,’ he pants into Arthur’s shirt. Gilbert is dizzy and curious. ‘Do you like girls too, or is that just me?’

‘Oh god,’ Arthur says. ‘Must we do this _now_?’

He fists Arthur’s cock roughly; Arthur sobs, bites.

‘I don’t. I don’t think so. You’re the bisexual one.’ Arthur’s going to pieces, slick and sardonic and shaking, but his eyes stay open. ‘Can’t imagine why you ask. You’re no pretty face.’

‘Bullshit. You think I’m hot stuff, you’ve wanted to do me for a while.’

Arthur looks Gilbert over thoroughly then, bottom lip drawn between his teeth. He hums deep appreciation. ‘Oh, you’re all right.’

Arthur drops his head on Gilbert’s shoulder. Gilbert slams up, fingers tight on Arthur’s cock to feel him clench around Gilbert’s — Arthur comes completely mute, teeth savage on Gilbert’s collarbone, not staining his own shirt but striping hot and wet along the round of Gilbert’s stomach.

‘Okay,’ Gilbert says, digging his nails in. ‘Okay.’

After a moment Arthur sits up. ‘Move,’ he orders and settles down between Gilbert’s legs, grinning at Gilbert’s whine when he lifts off all loose and full and wet. ‘Mind, I’m impressed. I thought you wouldn’t last this long.’

‘I’m awesome,’ replies Gilbert through clenched teeth, ‘don’t underestimate me!’

‘Bollocks. You wanked in the shower.’ Arthur rolls off the condom not nearly quickly enough. He’s looking half-lidded at Gilbert’s chastised erection, angling to take it into his mouth.

‘Wait! Don’t leave it here for Ludwig to see,’ Gilbert gasps when Arthur aims for the wastepaper basket. Arthur gives him one of the dirtiest looks he’s ever seen, which, seeing as he’s friends with Francis and Elizabeta, is no mean feat.

‘Do you want to come or not?’

‘You going to make me beg, Arthur? ‘Cause I’m telling you, I won’t.’

He comes hard enough to see colours. Arthur pulls himself up to his elbows, tongue flicking out to swipe over his swollen lips, and then sits up against the headboard and gives Gilbert an amused look.

‘How’s that?’

‘Seven out of ten,’ he says, after getting his breath back. Arthur’s stare turns steely. ‘Joking! I’m seventeen years old, my standards aren’t high.’

Somehow they get under the blankets, sticky and uncomfortable. Gilbert wants to clean themselves up with tissues first — having seen the state of Arthur’s bedroom, it’s no surprise that Gilbert is the tidy one between them — but Arthur’s insistent and sated, mouth curling up sleepily. Gilbert kisses him once, twice, sucking on his lower lip, and Arthur makes a small sound. Gilbert must doze off then, for when he wakes up it’s nearly pitch-black through the curtains and Arthur is gone.

That’s no surprise either. That’s the thing about Arthur Kirkland — he always says he wants to spend the night and then leaves anyway. But he’s the first to apologise, the first to offer his forgiveness. Gilbert rolls over, pulling the blankets up to his neck, and watches the gleam of the moon in the window and sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come talk to me on [tumblr](http://www.kevystel.tumblr.com)


	8. but i crumble completely when you cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: [505 by arctic monkeys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MrmPDUvKyLs)
> 
> tw: depressive episode and anxiety attack in this chapter 
> 
> francis is pansexual but they can all use gay as a blanket term bc privileges imo. also francis+arthur/francis+gilbert def have h2h about francis’ own issues just as often, it’s just that those issues aren’t really plot-relevant lmao
> 
> ludwig’s students love him because he accidentally makes like 13 boxes of baked goods and brings them to all his classes to give out and matthew williams is a sweet soul in the body of a fratboy dudebro

_WhatsApp, 2:05am_

**Francis:** You keep this up and he’s going to think you’re ashamed of him

 **You:** look,, why wouldnt he be

 **You:** i would be

 **You:** he should be

 **Francis:** You would be what

 **You:** im not…,, good enough for date

 **You:** hes arthur fucking kirkland and im just a black hole

 **You:** a hole

 **You:** a-hole

 **Francis:** No

 **You:** asshole

 **You:** get it

 **Francis:** No, you’re wrong

 **You:** hahahaa

 **Francis:** He loves you

 **Francis:** And so do I

 **You:** thats

 **You:** thats gay

 **Francis:** I’m Very Gay

 **You:** i know buddy

 **Francis:** <3

 **You:** i know

 **Francis:** I think I’m allowed to be maudlin at this hour

 **Francis:** You’re barely coherent and I’ve been chain smoking since dinner

 **You:** wtf francis all that running isnt gonna do you any good if you still get lung cancer by the time youre 30

 **Francis:** I run to destress not to stay healthy lmao

 **You:** fuck

 **You:** mess

 **You:** all of us are MESS

 **Francis:** Is?

 **You:** are a mess

 **You:** i think

 **Francis:** Oh ok

 **You:** fuck this language

 **Francis:** Ikr

 **Francis:** Learn French

 **You:** nein

 **Francis:** :D

 **Francis:** Am I hot mess??

 **You:** youre a meme

 **Francis:** FUCK

 **You:** i like how your typing is just

 **You:** deteriorating by the minute

 **Francis:** How can you spell that

 **You:** im not. cracking up

 **You:** why does everyone think im cracking up

 **Francis:** You are

 **You:** are you cracking up

 **Francis:** No I’m fine

 **You:** ive always been a crack

 **You:** ass crack

 **Francis:** GOD

 **You:** lmao

 **Francis:** You’re a good

 **You:** im a demerit good

 **You:** nobody should consume me

 **Francis:** See I knew you understood more of econs than you let on

 **You:** thats pathetic

 **Francis:** I meant to type good person

 **Francis:** You deserve to be in a good relationship

 **Francis:** I promise

 **You:** i cant handle relationship

 **Francis:** Gilbert I think you should sleep

 **Francis:** It’s the 2am talking, don’t listen to it

 **You:** i cant handle life tbh

 **Francis:** No don’t

 **Francis:** We love you

 **You:** so much gay

 **Francis:** fuck the gay?

 **You:** fuck the gay

 **You:** ok sleep

 **Francis:** You sleep

 **You:** soon

 **You:** and you???

 **Francis:** 1 more chapter then I’ll sleep

 **Francis:** Good night

 **Francis:** Try reading this over in the morning

* * *

_WhatsApp, 6:59am_

**You:** shit i just read this and im a dramatic fuck im so sorry

 **You:** ignore everything

 **Francis:** No you’re not

 **Francis:** Good luck for econs today

 **Francis:** You can do it!!

 **You:** yeah all the best for your french exam

* * *

Gilbert’s face lights up when he sees Arthur. Now that finals have started they don’t see each other much, only come to school for the two- or three-hour stretches of the day’s exams; and Gilbert spends too much time alone nowadays, in Arthur’s opinion. The near-complete isolation of exam periods is all right for Arthur, but Arthur’s the sort of person who’s happy to curl up with Tolkien or Wodehouse for days on end. Gilbert is not. He comes unhurriedly down the corridor towards Arthur with that parade-ground posture, bag slung over his shoulder, and Arthur feels a bit warmer in the sodden morning.

‘Łukasiewicz is driving me up the fucking wall,’ says Gilbert, though his eyes are a little wider, a little sweeter than usual. He’s irritable as a raw nerve these days, and only Arthur’s even voice and the touch of Arthur’s lips on his forehead seem to cool down all that hissing frustration. Arthur is not sure whether this is supposed to be normal for Gilbert. Gilbert slips his hand into Arthur’s with an audible sigh of relief. ‘Let’s get out of here, Arthur, _please_.’

They’re outside the hall. Everyone’s gathering up their bags in the corridor and checking their phones and comparing answers and lunch plans and the noise grates off Arthur’s rib cage and he closes his eyes and breathes. To stop himself from listening to Camille Durand’s dry explanation of the last question, already notorious for being difficult — she’s Francis’ cousin from Monaco and in all aspects Francis’ _heir_ , right down to the dance-club-student-council natural progression of resume achievements, her ballet-trained elegance, her cool intellect — Arthur nods at Gilbert’s hoodie, zipped up almost all the way to his neck.

‘Cold?’

‘Yeah,’ Gilbert says. He falls into step beside Arthur. When he turns his head to glance up at a seating plan tacked to one of the hall doors on their way out, the savagely pointed bones of his face are heartbreaking. ‘How’d you find it?’

‘Econs? It was all right. You?’

Gilbert’s expressions have been getting more and more minute — he just flicks an eyebrow up, now, where a couple of weeks ago he’d have shrugged or laughed or thrown his hands up in despair. ‘Think I’ll pass. You hungry?’

They eat a quiet lunch in the dining hall. Arthur steals Gilbert’s meatballs and Gilbert’s hand lies easily on Arthur’s knee, fingers spread flat as if he isn’t really thinking about it. Arthur is glad to have it there. Their finals are spread over two weeks with a one-week term break in between. It’s much less gruelling than it is for the seniors, who are basically facing their university entrance examinations. Arthur doesn’t want to think about senior year. He’s not… he’s not enough, he’s a faux-posh accent and a driving _need_ and not much else, these days. There’s an urgent itch in his blood, a ticking under his skin, and it quiets a little when he’s with Gilbert; he knows being around Arthur makes Gilbert feel whole.

Gilbert rubs his eyes. He is handsome in a way that’s almost painful. ‘You going to finish that?’

Arthur puts down his spoon and pushes the bowl across the table to Gilbert. Gilbert finishes it with poker-faced efficiency, barely flinching at how their school’s cooks have somehow managed to _burn soup_. Arthur has low standards when it comes to food, as Francis never fails to point out, and Gilbert has a look of having always been hungry. Gilbert was made to be a fighter: the predatory eyes, the cheekbones high and defined, the knifelike mouth. At normal times his default expression is a slightly superior half-smile, and now — with that new detached neutrality Alfred won’t ever choose to imitate — he looks lost. It doesn’t suit him.

‘You haven’t been sleeping, have you?’ Arthur says, since neither of them are in the mood for proper conversation.

Gilbert doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Have _you_?’

‘Not that much less than usual,’ answers Arthur truthfully.

‘What’ve you been doing?’

‘Filling out applications for holiday internships. The deadlines are in the middle of finals, which makes no sense because presumably getting good grades on your finals is a criterion for being accepted at all.’ He sees Gilbert’s expression close off and catches himself. ‘But I’ll handle that. What about you?’

Gilbert’s glance is cool, his long eyelashes flickering — then his gaze lingers on Arthur’s face. He frowns. ‘Take a break after finals.’

‘Can’t. Debate camp.’

‘Christ.’ In response to Arthur’s raised eyebrows, Gilbert sighs and addresses his earlier question: ‘I’ve been lying in bed all day instead of studying for the next paper. I’m getting more sleep than I ever have. They should give me a medal.’

Arthur looks at the sharp unsmiling lines of Gilbert’s face, at the neat and clever movements of his hands, and feels a hot ache of fondness spread outwards all through his chest. ‘Why can’t you get out of bed?’

‘Buddy, I _can_. I just don’t want to.’

They both know Gilbert’s usually much better at lying. But Arthur chooses his battles. Since they all need a break from talking and thinking and dreaming about nothing except finals, he asks, ‘How’s Antonio?’

Gilbert’s sudden smile isn’t very nice — it seems designed to inspire unease in Gilbert’s unfortunate targets, as far as Gilbert does anything by design. Still, it is familiar. ‘Antonio’s decided to move on from Lovino Vargas. He’s gone through more cigarettes this week than you do in a month.’

Smoking is too expensive a habit for Arthur to keep up much longer. His throat’s bruised, and he smiles. ‘Pity about Vargas’ new girlfriend being good friends with Antonio. Although we all saw it coming.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, yes.’ It surprises Arthur that Gilbert doesn’t know this. Then he glances at Gilbert’s face and realises that Gilbert is just talking on autopilot. ‘Well, most people knew that Vargas liked Laura. We just didn’t think she’d reciprocate.’

Gilbert’s spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl, and he glances down at it in absent surprise.

‘You’re close to her too, yeah?’

‘Laura? Yeah. But Antonio knew her before I did.’ With finger and thumb Arthur massages the bridge of his nose. His bones ache with fatigue. ‘They were neighbours back in Spain, apparently, that’s why Tim and Antonio don’t get along.’

Gilbert shoots him an amused look and Arthur thinks suddenly of how odd it is to have him in this position, passing on gossip. As if Gilbert doesn’t already know these things about Antonio. Arthur’s always seen himself as the lonely one. He can feel the easy comfort of being with Gilbert settling into his lungs, loosening the tightness in his chest that’s been building up these past weeks — the first time they kissed, backstage in the school auditorium, and the way Gilbert turned his head then, how easily they fit together, like a seal, a promise.

Arthur gets invested in things and people far too quickly to be healthy. This is why he doesn’t _do_ the whole caring thing. His mouth fills with the weight of his own desperation.

‘It’s not surprising that she’d go for Vargas,’ says Gilbert flatly. ‘All the girls like Vargas.’

‘If Kiku is friends with Vargas, why aren’t you?’

Gilbert shrugs. Although Arthur is quite sure he already knows the answer (Gilbert’s idea of loyalty can get a little extreme, and Antonio is squarely in the “I will defend you at all costs” category), he’s curious as to whether Gilbert will admit it out loud. ‘Don’t think he likes me. Also, he calls everyone a fucker regardless of what he thinks of them and I can’t live with that.’ Gilbert’s exhale is long and dry. ‘I’m not staying in school today, by the way. I’m going back to the dorm to sleep.’

‘Yes, all right.’ Arthur pauses, picking his next words with care. Gilbert’s a natural; everything about Arthur’s interactions with other people is _learned_. When he nods hello to his neighbour and his neighbour’s cat on his way to school in the mornings, or reflexively pulls a chair out for Laura so that she smiles, it’s with the calculated precision of long practice. Arthur can’t trust his instincts, and Gilbert just does whatever he feels like doing and now that Gilbert’s switched that off the contrast is devastating. ‘I’m sorry that Antonio’s having a bad time.’

Over the rim of his water bottle, Gilbert snorts. ‘You’ve never been sorry for anything in your life and you know it.’

Something in his tone raises Arthur’s hackles. ‘It’s not that big a deal and it’s not my fault, anyway.’

He’s said that far too sharply. God, he can’t do anything right, can he?

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ Gilbert’s eyes are distant, clear in their colour under the yellowing lights. He is very obviously making an effort to keep his temper; his tone’s weary. ‘Just… you don’t give a fuck and never have pretended to, my favourite thing about you is how you give absolutely no fucks about what other people think so just don’t bother, okay?’

‘Right.’ Arthur drains the last of his coffee and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. He’s too tired to start a fight and he doesn’t want to fight, at any rate, when Gilbert’s exhausted and upset. ‘And then there’s Francis, who is inexplicably single.’

‘Oh, _Francis_!’ A bit of life creeps back into Gilbert’s voice. ‘That motherfucker.’

‘Everybody checks out Francis,’ says Arthur, smiling despite himself. ‘It’s an unfortunate fact of life.’

Gilbert’s fingers brush Arthur’s as he reaches across the table for Arthur’s cup, to shake the melting coffee-stained ice cubes into his own mouth. ‘Everybody checks out Francis. Nobody has the guts to hit on him.’ He speaks through a mouthful of crunching ice, terrible manners; Arthur watches him patiently with chin in hand. The dining hall is quietly filling up around them. ‘And Francis doesn’t care about anything right now except getting into his dream university. He’s enjoying the single life, our Francis.’

Now Arthur can hear the smile in Gilbert’s tone. Arthur gets up to return their cutlery and dishes and Gilbert follows him, sliding easily off the bench. The afternoon blurs behind Arthur’s eyelids. And Gilbert has apparently decided that they aren’t dating, so Arthur says:

‘Don’t you like being single?’

‘Me? Obviously.’ Half Gilbert’s sense of humour is making what sound like terrible puns in German with a straight face while his brother’s shoulders silently start shaking, and the other half is the kind of vicious self-degradation Arthur can appreciate. Gilbert slides the bowl and plate into their respective trays to be returned to the kitchens. ‘I love being alone. Who’s bitter? I’m not bitter. Look at me right now. There are tears standing in my eyes and they’re tears of _joy_.’

Arthur’s lungs feel as though they’ve shrunk to half their size. He takes a breath, takes two: short, bitter inhales that don’t so much calm him down as they close his throat off. He feels like he’s been worn down to bare wire and he’s sick of lying awake at night, and his eyes are burning with the lack of rest and the cold panic of colder evenings alone in his room, and he is so sick of spiralling like this. The too-bright day _drags_.

Before Gilbert can spot the change in his face, he clears his throat. Gilbert glances mechanically at him with that curious dead expression. ‘I’ll see you around, then.’

‘Okay.’ Gilbert leans forward and kisses Arthur swiftly and out of everything in this odd, stilted afternoon that’s the one thing that makes Arthur _stop_. Gilbert’s mouth is thin and warm and chapped. ‘Get some sleep tonight, yeah? You’re going to kill yourself if you straight up don’t sleep for a couple of days.’

‘Speak for yourself.’

He’s still watching Gilbert’s retreating back, hands in his pockets, standing beside the shelves of trays like an idiot, when Héderváry taps his shoulder.

Arthur is losing his knowledge of how to act like himself.

‘The teachers approved our proposal for debate camp,’ Héderváry says. She’s as cool and fresh-eyed in the increasingly crowded dining hall as she always is — how is it that other people can get through this just fine? — and Arlovskaya gazes dispassionately at Arthur from their corner table nearby. He acknowledges her with a slow wary nod as he’s seen Gilbert do; Arthur is wary all the time, teetering eternally on the brink of disaster.

‘Took them long enough,’ Arthur replies. He gives one last look to Gilbert disappearing through the glass doors and pulls himself together. He knows he looks no worse than usual on the outside, and that Héderváry can’t have noticed a thing — that’s Arthur’s only talent worth mentioning, keeping up a façade of lethal calm.

‘Mr Karpusi says he’ll book the rooms for us this week. We have the weekend after finals to get everything together.’ Héderváry follows his line of vision. Her long hair spills over one shoulder and she is very pretty: these are the things Arthur notices now, with a kind of tea-fevered detachment. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you’re really cute together?’

Héderváry thinks any same-sex couple is cute. She’s not exactly discerning. Arthur says absently (offbeat and out of place in this entire day with everything feeling wrong), ‘He’s scaring me.’

Héderváry’s face splits with her sudden grin, which is strikingly similar to Gilbert’s — a disturbing number of sharp white teeth. ‘I don’t think Gilbert realises how scary he is. Once some dumb fuck asked if he was a Nazi and Gilbert just stared at him till the poor kid nearly wet himself.’

* * *

_WhatsApp, 4:04am_

**Gilbert:** are you awake

* * *

_WhatsApp, 11:27am_

**You:** Sorry I didn’t see this before

 **You:** I was asleep, I had my history final this morning

 **You:** Why weren’t you sleeping anyway didn’t you have chem today

* * *

_WhatsApp, 7:48am_

**You:** I have a question

 **Antonio:** go

 **You:** Has Gilbert texted you lately

 **You:** Because he’s been reading my messages without replying for 4 days straight

 **Antonio:** huh no I haven’t seen him around either

 **You:** You live in the same building??

 **Antonio:** he does that sometimes you’ll get used to it

 **Antonio:** we’re all busy with finals, don’t get on my case

 **Antonio:** try calling him

 **Antonio:** shit he probably won’t pick up

 **Antonio:** look I have my bio practical exam in 10 min but I’ll check if he’s in his room when I get back okay?

* * *

It takes him until Friday of term break to realise that he’s really not succeeding at this whole “be a functioning human being” thing.

He hasn’t been doing much at all, since the manic rush of productivity during those last few days before finals started. Now he comes home after his morning papers and crawls into bed and doesn’t touch his notes or look at his phone for hours on end, while the sky turns grey and indigo and black outside the lonely windows. He somehow manages to put off going over his work until ten o’clock the night before each exam, sleeps at one, isn’t anywhere near prepared, and feels like shit through no one’s fault except his own.

And now it’s Friday and he’s wasted this whole week, only not really, because there are still two precious days before finals begin again next Monday so he can’t even say _fuck it_ and give up altogether. He’s lying in bed and studiously not thinking about statistics and differential equations, or he’s staring at the same page in his physics textbook for twenty minutes before he slams it back into the drawer and pulls the blankets over his head. He struggled through several practice papers, give him credit for that, before he shoved his foolscap pad aside and resigned himself to fucking up finals like he does every year. He’s pretty sure he’s done enough revision over the past few weeks but it’s not like he knows what’s normal or what’s enough; he can’t remember anything now, in any case. So it doesn’t matter. Everything he’s done over the past month won’t matter when his grades at the end of the year are shit enough that there’s serious talk of kicking him out of the school. Ludwig can’t plead with the deputy headmaster any more. Ludwig should never have had to. If he fails and gets held back a year it’s to be expected, no one will be surprised least of all himself and it’s what he deserves, anyway, for being a selfish lazy shit and he doesn’t know what Arthur sees in him, Arthur doesn’t make stupid decisions.

Ludwig comes back at around four or five p.m. every day after invigilating in the mornings and afternoons. Either that or he’s holding last-minute remedial classes and consultations for his weakest students, who are working much harder than his brother is. He gets a little wrinkle between his eyebrows to see Gilbert napping or just lying on his back and staring at the ceiling instead of studying. He offers to help Gilbert with physics (‘whatever topics you need, ask me any questions you have’) and Gilbert says it’s fine, it wouldn’t do much, at any rate.

Ludwig gets his apron out of the drawer beside the sink and goes into the pantry at nine o’clock at night and bakes three loaves of bread. He takes one to school and leaves the other two on his desk for Gilbert. Ludwig is clearly at the end of his rope with Gilbert.

(In the middle of the week Feliciano came over with sweet rolls from the German pastry shop in town and four different flavours of gelato and Gilbert said _how much food do you guys think I can eat, Jesus fuck, I’m just taking my fucking fifth-year finals not going through a rough breakup after a ten-year-long relationship_ and they left him alone after that.)

And here Gilbert was thinking all this while that he’s improved so much in four years at St. Catherine’s, as far as his social skills are concerned. Christ. He’s causing his brother and his brother’s closest friend so much trouble. They go to such pains for him and he’s acting like a brat. He’s sorry, but he doesn’t feel sorry, he hasn’t got anything inside him except a lot of empty space and a drugged, disoriented feeling from having slept too much and a dull heaviness from not having spoken to anyone in ages. Honestly? Ludwig should have let them just expel Gilbert once his grades started slipping and his in-class conduct went down the drain, he’ll go to a different school, an easier school, he’ll go back to Germany, he’s not supposed to be here.

Friday evening and he hasn’t gotten out of bed or showered in three days or maybe four, he’s not good with keeping track of time, except when the blue patient hours of waiting for nothing to happen are interrupted by a crying fit because _of course_. Whenever he thinks about facing down the blank sheets of his second maths paper on Monday, he gets a terrible sinking feeling of so much dread that it’s… it’s familiar enough to be comforting, actually. He’s kind of missed this.

Francis forgets to text and Gilbert hates him a little bit for that, and Antonio and Gilbert’s conversations have always been mostly superficial. It’s probably time to accept that Gilbert doesn’t really have any friends and he should start doing something about that instead of lying in bed wallowing in self-pity like _every angsty teenager ever_ , god, no wonder nobody likes him, only — you know? He doesn’t particularly want to, not right now. Just for a little while. He doesn’t want to leave his room to go to school to study like everybody else has been doing — or, hell, go to school to even take his fucking finals. He doesn’t want to get out of bed at all. He hasn’t seen Francis or Antonio in what feels like forever (they’re ignoring him, no, they’re not, _rationally_ he knows they’re not, they’re just busy) and he could reply to Elizabeta or Kiku’s texts from days ago but he can’t bring himself to turn on his phone. He tells himself: _get through the rest of finals and then you can have the biggest, most epic fucking breakdown you like. The fucking apocalypse of breakdowns. It’ll make last year’s one look like child’s play. You promised you’d get through finals. Just one more week._

He doesn’t text Arthur back because Arthur is one of Those People who are going to Oxbridge or UCL to study political science or law or something equally terrifying. Gilbert is pretty sure he’s not actually a person and he can’t look Arthur in the eye like this.

It’s dark outside and there’s a knock on his door.

He wants it to be Antonio, or Francis — just, he just, he wants to not be invisible — but when he opens the door it’s Arthur.

‘Hey,’ Gilbert says, spirits lifting a little. He searches for the words — searches Arthur’s face, Arthur looks terrible, and comes up with: ‘What’s up?’

Pathetic.

‘I hope you don’t mind me coming over,’ Arthur says. ‘I wanted to see you.’

Gilbert never expected Arthur to be so open about his affection. Arthur learns fast, or (more likely) Arthur always had it in him; Arthur doesn’t trust easily but he falls hard. Arthur is so many different people at once — his quicksilver composure and his fine singing voice and his well-bred, understated, “please don’t fight me on this; trust me, I’ll win” way of taking charge. His acidic determination and strength. Gilbert isn’t even enough of one person.

He steps back from the door and lets Arthur in.

‘If you’re looking for Antonio or Francis, I don’t know where they are.’

He knows he sounds brusque, but he feels too much like shit to prevent the week-long bad mood from colouring his voice. This has been coming for a long time. And it’s unfair to Arthur, who has never treated him like one-third of a whole.

Arthur is visibly gathering the remnants of his patience. ‘I know. Antonio said you were in your room. He came in to check.’

‘Oh. I think I must’ve been asleep when Antonio came in.’

‘Yeah.’ Arthur sits down on the edge of the bed and looks up at Gilbert, the skin around his eyes red and sore. His lower lip is bitten to shreds. ‘How’ve you been?’

‘I want to die,’ says Gilbert quite truthfully.

Arthur doesn’t even blink. Here’s another person who’s willing to put up with Gilbert’s melodrama for far too long. It must be so fucking annoying to listen to Gilbert. Without pausing for long, Arthur asks, ‘Meaning that you’ve got a general desire to do so, or that you have a concrete plan for killing yourself and intend to carry it out?’

‘Don’t know. Could probably come up with one on the spot if I tried. Give me a minute.’

He crawls into bed beside Arthur and just leans against Arthur’s shoulder. It’s easier. God, Arthur smells good.

Arthur’s tone is neutral. ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t.’

‘Yeah, well, you haven’t known me all that long so it’s no great loss, forgive me if I don’t believe you.’

And he’s done it again. Gilbert shuts his eyes, opens them again, carefully doesn’t look at Arthur. He lies back on the pillows and rubs his eyes furiously, trying to scratch away all that enormous capacity for fucking up.

Arthur’s voice has gone very wry, but he’s bending over to fiddle with a stray thread on his sock, which is more patches and darning than wool at this point.

‘You don’t often believe me, do you?’

Arthur sleeps with Gilbert because Arthur has isolated himself for so long, when he doesn’t even _have_ to, that Gilbert seemed like the first person who was seriously interested in him and nice to him and Arthur jumped at that — at the chance for cheap affection.

Gilbert can’t say that. He says, ‘I can’t tell if you just use me to make yourself feel better.’

‘I could say the same for you.’ And yeah, he deserves that. Arthur looks directly at him now and Gilbert wants to set himself on fire. ‘I cannot in fact read your mind, in case you were wondering.’

Gilbert frowns. ‘You’re not responsible for me. You don’t have to figure out why I’m —’

‘That’s not what I mean.’ Years of threadbare courtesy have trained Arthur not to raise his voice. He’s soft as an old sweater and controlled and everything Gilbert says and does is beyond his own control, now, and Gilbert can’t seem to stop making a mess of things. ‘I don’t mind you constantly not being in the best of moods, do you understand? I know you haven’t… that you’ve not been yourself, nowadays, and that’s fine. It’s not your fault. What I do mind is you taking it out on me.’

Uselessly, he protests: ‘I’m not —’

‘Yes, you are.’ Arthur’s face is bare centimetres away from Gilbert’s and Arthur’s eyes fall shut momentarily as he breathes. ‘I’d really rather not fight, if it’s all the same to you.’

They’re not fighting. ‘We’re not fighting.’

‘Aren’t we?’ says Arthur, coldly and exasperatingly logical. ‘You’re clearly angry —’

‘No, I’m not, you haven’t seen me angry —’

‘Don’t _threaten_ me.’

‘Don’t interrupt me.’

Arthur pauses, collecting himself. ‘Also, just because anger doesn’t scare me off doesn’t mean that you’re welcome to use me as a convenient outlet.’

‘Do you even like anything about me?’

‘Not your unnecessary inferiority complex, that’s for sure.’ Now Arthur stands up, and — oh, good for Gilbert, he’s very good at driving people away when he wants to. ‘Shall I leave?’

‘No! No, please, I’m sorry. I just, I don’t know how to do anything, I —’

Arthur just gazes back at Gilbert.

Gilbert’s sitting up in bed, the blankets thick and unwashed, and he looks at Arthur and the guarded unhappy twist of Arthur’s mouth and realises that he doesn’t feel anything about Arthur.

‘Arthur?’

‘Yeah?’

‘How do you know that you’re a real person?’

‘Honestly? I have no idea.’ Arthur sits down again, reluctantly, and Gilbert breathes a sigh of relief. He blinks hard. He won’t cry in front of anyone. ‘Will you be all right?’

‘Hmm? No, I’m fine, I don’t have any issues. I’m just generally a shitty person.’

‘You’re a shittier liar,’ Arthur tells him softly, and kisses the top of his head. His hand is cool and steadying on the back of Gilbert’s neck. ‘Is it finals?’

He wants to say _no, it’s everything_ , and he wants to tell Arthur to shut up because Arthur is dealing with enough shit of his own and doesn’t have time for Gilbert’s, and Gilbert just needs to grow the fuck up and stop working himself up over nothing and he says before he can stop himself: ‘Yeah.’

‘Listen,’ Arthur says, ‘you’ll be fine. I assure you — if you passed the entrance exam, and I know you did, you deserve to be here. They wouldn’t have let you in if you weren’t good enough. And that means you can do it. These are facts even you can’t argue with.’

‘Yeah, I know. I tire myself out with that bullshit too.’

‘Stop finding ways to put yourself down, will you?’

Gilbert looks at Arthur properly now, at the exhaustion thin and cloudy in Arthur’s face: Arthur doesn’t have time for this. Gilbert doesn’t know how to _not_ be a burden on other people.

‘You okay?’

‘Of course I am,’ replies Arthur blankly. Arthur’s people skills are frankly formidable, comfortable from long wear; he approaches social interaction like it’s a science. He should write a manual on how to be the politest motherfucker around while wanting to kill everyone near you ninety-nine percent of the time. Gilbert is way more extroverted and doesn’t know what to do with himself. ‘I’m. I’m usually fine, you know.’

‘I know. You’re tough.’ Gilbert feels himself smile. He presses a little nearer — there’s warmth all along his side where Arthur leans into him, and Gilbert is touch-starved. He’s so close he can taste the evening coolness on Arthur’s skin. Arthur’s a far cry from Lovino Vargas’ disdainful good looks and he looks younger out of uniform (unlike Francis, Gilbert’s seen strangers literally do a double take when Francis walks into cafés with his fucking ponytail and fashionable scarves) but he’s, you know, he’s good to look at. ‘Why haven’t you ever gone out properly with anyone? I mean, you’re… you’re _you_.’

‘Oh, I have no trouble getting people to be interested in me. It’s keeping them interested that’s the problem.’ Abruptly Arthur gets up again, dragging his sleeve over his eyes. No wonder the skin there looks so irritated. ‘You think far too highly of me.’

‘You deserve it,’ Gilbert says. ‘Are you staying over?’

‘No, I think I’ll go.’ Arthur crosses the room and begins putting on his shoes. Gilbert watches Arthur in confusion and something in him plummets. ‘I live so near school that it’s convenient for me to come here any time, don’t worry about it.’

Of course Arthur’s leaving. Lying on his back, Gilbert turns his head sideways to watch Arthur and he’s full of so much negativity that it spills over into everything he says and does, he doesn’t know what to do with it, he says: ‘Would you miss me if I just. You know. If I transferred out?’

Arthur pauses as he’s lacing up his shoes. He looks straight ahead, at the wall just above the shoe rack, for a hotly exasperated half-second.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I miss Fritz a lot, you know. And the dogs, there’s always the dogs —’

‘Are you serious?’

Gilbert wants to take back everything he’s ever said. ‘Yeah. Yeah, no, don’t tell me why that’s a stupid idea, I know it’s a stupid idea, I don’t need you explaining to me why I’m stupid.’ He cuts Arthur off before Arthur can speak. ‘Just. Could I? Don’t tell me I _shouldn’t_. If I did, what would you think?’

Arthur studies his face for a moment, and then settles on something pragmatic and cool. Arthur bites back half the things he wants to say to Gilbert most of the time — Gilbert can see them written in his face.

‘I’d still text you if you went back to Germany. And I’d Skype you on the weekends.’

‘Really?’

‘ _Really_ ,’ says Arthur, drawing a breath. ‘I’d still want to keep in touch with you — you do know that, right? And so would all your other friends.’

And then, breaking eye contact, Arthur’s out of the door and gone.

Gilbert sits up in bed and rests his elbows on his knees and puts his face in his hands for a few seconds. This is fucking ridiculous.

This… this episode, or whatever, has gone on long enough. He’s lonely. He should turn his phone back on and answer his texts — he should talk to Kiku or Elizabeta, they’ll understand — he should get himself out of this rut. But he can’t, he can’t bring himself to and he doesn’t really want to, after all, it’s nice to just let himself go.

The door opens and closes. Gilbert looks up, feeling childish and irritated with himself, and it’s Ludwig — looking cool and pale, probably tired from the long day, Ludwig’s only just turned thirty and Gilbert should be working hard (like Francis) and scoring top marks (like Francis) to do him proud, after all they’ve given up to move here, and yet here Gilbert is being a nuisance and feeling sorry for himself.

‘Morning,’ says Gilbert brightly, switching to German in a heartbeat.

‘I don’t want you to go home,’ Ludwig says.

Gilbert rolls out of bed and pulls his booklet of maths practice questions towards him. Maybe if he takes it to bed he’ll manage to do something. The sheer effort of picking it up again after so long nearly drains him.

‘How long were you listening out there?’

‘I wasn’t. I only heard the last part.’ Ludwig unbuttons his coat, takes it off and hangs it up by the door. ‘Look, if you’ve decided you can’t sit for the rest of your finals, we can talk to Feliciano. He can get you a doctor’s letter. You just have to say the word.’

‘Fuck no, I’m taking my finals.’

‘Gilbert.’

‘It doesn’t have to be _that_ extreme. I’m fine.’

* * *

_WhatsApp, 9:31pm_

**Alfred:** ayyy dude matt’s finals are over so let’s all go out for ice cream + arcade

 **Alfred:** you me francis matt

 **You:** Don’t you have physics paper 2 to prepare for

 **Alfred:** yeah well fuck that it’s not for a few days

 **Alfred:** plus my boy matthew deserves a break B)

 **Alfred:** we’ll meet u @the ice cream parlor after ur lit exam

* * *

_WhatsApp, 9:32pm_

**You:** I hear you’re done with finals you lucky child

 **You:** Go play that video game you’ve been telling me about

 **You:** I’ll treat you to scones after mine are over how’s that

 **Matthew:** omg thanks dad

 **Matthew:** dad!!!!

 **You:** I’m

 **Matthew:** call me son

 **Matthew:** DO IT

 **You:** Ok anyway

 **Matthew:** what paper do u have tmr

 **You:** Lit!

 **Matthew:** AYYY LMAO

 **Matthew:** DEAN’S LIST Y/N????

 **You:** We’ll see

 **Matthew:** BEST IN LIT AWARD DEFENDING CHAMPION ARTHUR KIRKLAND

 **Matthew:** go forth and slay my boy

 **Matthew:** do us all proud

 **You:** Who’s the parent figure here I do not understand

 **Matthew:** daD

 **You:** How stoned are you right now?

 **Matthew:** so fuckign. stone

 **Matthew:** like 7 stone ;;

 **Matthew:** tbh

 **Matthew:** ,daddyy,,

 **You:** GOOD NIGHT

* * *

_iMessage, 10:12pm_

**Kiku:** Good luck tomorrow!!! You will definitely top the cohort as usualヾ(´∀｀* )

* * *

_WhatsApp, 10:36pm_

**Elizabeta (Debate):** I saw your email thanks!!!!! We’ll settle that shit later

 **Elizabeta (Debate):** Need to talk to Karpusi about it tho, I’ll text you once I’ve checked all the forms

 **Elizabeta (Debate):** Also

 **Elizabeta (Debate):** All the best for lit!!!! HAHAHA

 **Elizabeta (Debate):** Pls give the rest of us a chance k

* * *

_WhatsApp, 10:45pm_

**Antonio:** settled?

 **You:** Yes thanks

 **Antonio:** I made him churros last night if that helps

 **Antonio:** okay good

 **You:** You sound stressed

 **Antonio:** I’m okay

 **Antonio:** and you?

* * *

Arthur is fine until he looks at the first question on his literature paper and realises he hasn’t got any idea how to start writing.

He knows how to do it — he _knows_ — but he can’t bring himself to begin writing the first of his three essays. He flips to the next page, reads the extract quickly. He circles the question number he’s chosen to do.

All that remains to do is to start on it.

He has an essay plan. In his head, ready to be spilled onto the blank school-issued writing paper before him. He can write it down, and write his introduction, and start.

He can’t.

He —

Arthur looks around. Everyone else in the hall has their heads bent over their desks; he can see the sentences forming on their first pages. He should feel the words peeling away neatly from the inside of his mouth, arguments strung together, bullet points — he can plan his essays first, he doesn’t have to write them, only a few headings — he has nothing. Everything freezes up. His thoughts stutter to a standstill. He can’t breathe.

It’s twenty minutes into the three-hour exam and the hall is steady with the quiet, even sounds of pens scratching on paper and Arthur has nothing.

He looks down at the paper. The letters blur.

He has to —

Maybe the third essay question, first.

It’s a set of two poems and he reads them without understanding them, there’s nothing he _can_ say, nothing he can write, he — he can’t do this.

Arthur’s eyes are burning. The silence _ticks_.

He’s still got time. He has plenty of time. He doesn’t take long to finish his essays, he’s always been good at that — and he _has_ to get straight A’s, he has to be top in English lit, he knew what he was signing up for when he got into this spiral of hot hard-hearted ambition and he can’t let himself slip now. He has to be one of the best students around if he’s to deserve anything he has; he’s not like Gilbert, who is naturally good at mathematics, who can solve a question at the board in effortless minutes after Kiku shakes him awake in class, all _Gilbert, wake up, Miss Chernenko is calling on you_. Gilbert’s got it all wrong: _he’s_ the impressive one, the one who deserves to go far. Arthur has a reputation to uphold and that doesn’t exactly win sympathy.

Arthur is so tired of writing essays.

Thirty minutes. He hasn’t written a single word.

He can feel the blank inadequacy climbing up his throat.

He can’t breathe.

He’s not good enough for this.

Thirty-seven minutes in and Arthur starts calculating — isn’t this one of the only things anyone likes about him, his ability to be calm about things? Stay calm. Finals are forty percent of the grade. If he throws this away completely, he still has his A grade for the rest of the year; he’ll get a C, perhaps a D. He’ll still pass. He’ll still be allowed to go on to senior year, and wouldn’t _that_ be funny: student council president held back a year, they’ll have to hold new elections, Camille Durand will take over and she’ll need a new vice-president in her old place. Arthur Kirkland gets a D in literature. He can hear Francis’ voice, puzzled, incredulous; he can imagine his classmates’ amusement or worse, their pity, and Gilbert going _shit, that’s some Shakespearean levels of fuck-up right there, what the fuck happened to you?_

He’s supposed to go out with Alfred and Matthew and Francis after this. He can’t look any of them in the eye. It’s a long fucking way down from your high horse. He’s had this coming for months, for years; he deserves to fail spectacularly, now, because obviously Arthur Kirkland isn’t satisfied with just mucking up one exam like any ordinary person. No, he has to do it in the most public manner possible, with two hundred other people in the room with him when he gets the blow to his massive ego that his peers have been waiting to see happen for a long, long time.

Arthur is fully aware of how thoroughly unsympathetic this is. So he’s not getting the perfect grades he doesn’t deserve anyway, so he doesn’t have his pride to fall back on — what a bloody tragedy, innit? He might fail after all. Maybe _that_ would warrant the ridiculous overreaction he can feel building in his chest. He should, he _should_ fail, that’ll take him down a peg or two, and it’s certainly possible that he’s miscalculated, that he’s overestimated how much his past test scores will pull up his overall grade. Arthur’s always been bad at maths.

Arthur’s going to —

Arthur’s lungs are shaking. There isn’t enough space in the hall for him to swallow. He’s looking at his knuckles white on the edge of the desk, at the pen he’s gripping, and he sets his pen down. Enough. _Enough._ He can’t breathe. The insides of his stomach are shouting. He needs to leave. He needs to not make a scene — not here, in front of all these people, and did Arthur have to choose to do this in the worst possible place at the worst possible time, oh Christ, not now, look over there, it’s fucking Kirkland being attention-seeking again.

The veins in his arms are coming apart. The invigilator is coming down the aisle towards him.

Arthur’s head feels very light and clear, suddenly. He thinks distantly that his breathing’s probably too loud. He zips up his pencil case. His six sheets of writing paper are perfectly blank except for his name, class, index number, date, subject: English Literature, in Arthur’s hurried efficient script. Three essays. Nothing to see here, move along.

Arthur pushes his chair back. It scrapes horribly against the oak floor and he cringes; he can feel everybody’s eyes on him, their annoyance at the noise, curiosity — the whole hall’s attention is on him and Arthur was never good enough — and the invigilator is looking at him and Arthur stands up and walks out of the hall with its two hundred students.

He takes his pencil case with him.

He is very good at this. He gets his bag from outside the hall and goes into the bathroom before anyone comes after him (two floors above the hall, so none of the invigilators will find him) and throws up. He does it twice. In the tiny cubicle, feet propped up against the door, he smokes four cigarettes, one after the other. When he checks his watch, the silence around him deafening, one and a half hours have passed.

His hands are still shaking. He gets back on his knees and vomits until nothing comes up but bile, and with the foul taste of it in his mouth, with his throat burned raw, nauseous still in the claustrophobic stink of the fourth-floor boys’ bathroom, he knows that it’s past eleven o’clock. The literature final is over. Congratulations, Arthur, you’ve royally fucked up at last, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

Arthur does not feel like thinking about the fact that he can apparently do a very accurate — if somewhat skewed towards the negative — impression of Gilbert’s voice in his head. He feels empty, scrubbed out, clean. The bathroom is also empty. God bless Arthur and his luck. He’s supposed to be on a bus into town now, on his way to celebrate the end of finals with friends. Somehow Arthur is not surprised that his subconscious has gotten round to referring to Alfred and Matthew and Francis as _friends_. He’s pitiful enough.

Arthur emerges from the cubicle feeling like he’s never seen the outside world before. The air is discoloured and bright. He clinically examines his reflection in the filthy mirror, washes his hands, rinses out his mouth, stops crying, washes his hands two more times, and walks out of the bathroom as if there’s nothing unusual about having been in a bathroom for over two hours.

At any rate, nobody notices.

Arthur goes home and showers and gets into bed and doesn’t think about anything.

* * *

_(3 missed calls: Alfred F. Jones)_

_SMS, 11:40am_

**Alfred:** dude

 **Alfred:** duuuude

 **Alfred:** where r u

 **Alfred:** ???

 **Alfred:** this is impressively late even for you

* * *

_iMessage, 12:51pm_

**Francis:** What’s going on?

**You:**

* * *

_WhatsApp, 7:38pm_

**Alfred:** shit arthur i heard about the lit exam

 **Alfred:** you ok????

 **Alfred:** reply dammit

**You:**

* * *

_8:02pm_

_(1 missed call: Francis Bonnefoy)_

* * *

_WhatsApp, 10:40pm_

**Alfred:** jsyk it’s really not as big a deal as it prob feels like rn

 **You:** _typing…_

**You:**

* * *

_WhatsApp, 3:17am_

**Gilbert:** are you sure you wouldnt want me to leave i mean

 **Gilbert:** youve got plenty of ., better people around

 **You:** _typing…_

 **You:** _typing…_

**You:**


	9. i am nothing without pretend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait between chapters!! i was having finals (lmao) anyway a-levels are in like a month so hopefully i'll be able to wrap this up fast. hopefully
> 
> chapter title from [civilian by wye oak](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mssm8Ml5sOo), which is THE arthur song for me
> 
> do gilbert and elizabeta personally hate each other’s typing styles? yes. do they text each other almost constantly despite that? also yes

Arthur spends a day or two wallowing in self-pity, which is really more than he should allow himself to do.

It’s dark in the windows and the room hums with noise; the blankets are too hot, and he makes tea and he sleeps, the best sleep he’s had in months. His finals are over and school doesn’t start again till next week. He has all the time in the world. Looking at his phone makes a dull pressure build in his gut so he doesn’t answer Alfred’s texts, or Francis’, and nobody else has texted him and he turns off his phone and goes back to bed and resents them, just a little.

Three days pass.

Arthur is not self-aware in the precise way Gilbert is, or Francis — he doesn’t think about his problems more than strictly necessary. It won’t do. It’s not the Done Thing, you see? Instead he sleeps for hours in the heaviness and the silence and wakes up, feeling sick from the heat, to the sound of a sharp knocking on his door.

Arthur’s brothers don’t knock. He rolls to the other side of the bed and frowns at his alarm clock: it’s nearly seven-thirty in the evening. God. His bedroom is blue, and cluttered, and this is the first time he’s slept more than three hours at a stretch since the week before finals — and now, of course, _something_ has to wake him up. He’s half a mind not to answer the door. Nobody’s been in his room since… oh, bugger it all.

‘All right, all right.’

Francis says, ‘You are coming with me back to my dorm.’

Arthur says: ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’

Francis, being Francis, ducks neatly under Arthur’s arm and steps inside the narrow, swollen confines of the bedroom uninvited. How predictable. Francis’ eyes are cold and he takes in the chaos of the unmade bed and aging laundry scattered on the floor, the curtains drawn, Arthur probably looking like a thunderstorm, in one quick glance.

‘Your brother let me in.’

‘Which brother?’

‘Does it matter?’ Delicately, Francis sniffs the air. ‘Have you been rotting away here? It smells awful. _You_ look awful. I knew you would.’

Arthur contemplates slamming the door in Francis’ face — for the satisfaction of it. But Francis has wisely gotten himself into the room already, damn him. Outmanoeuvred at every turn. While all these boiling thoughts are running blithely through Arthur’s head Francis is turning up his nose at the mess.

‘You didn’t reply to my texts.’ A moue of hurt, all theatrical; and yet the eyebrows are turned down in seriousness. Francis is full of light.

‘My phone was off.’

Francis’ lips thin. ‘Come over and get some rest.’

‘I _was_ resting until you showed up.’

‘You are alone so much of the time, it’s not good for you. What did you expect? Baked goods left outside your door? To be picked up at your earliest convenience?’

Arthur sits down on the end of his bed and pulls the blankets stubbornly over his knees. Francis, leaning against the doorframe, eyes him in contempt.

He’d be lying if he said some part of him wasn’t hoping for this. To see the effect: can Arthur disappear off the face of the earth without anybody noticing? Well, here’s his answer, and it is humiliating. He should feel worse about this than he does. Guilt, perhaps, because this whole episode of his has been so very blatantly manipulative. Look who cares about you! Try not to lose them.

But he’s feeling pretty lighthearted on the whole. It’s hard to worry much when you’ve already pulled off such a tremendous cock-up.

‘Listen,’ says Francis, harshly out of patience, ‘you can sleep in the other bed in my room, the one Lukas Bondevik slept in before he left. You like my room the best, at any rate. Come on, tell me this isn’t a good idea. I dare you. I am being _nice_ to you.’

‘What, are you trying to make amends for something you’ve done that I don’t know about yet?’

Francis throws up his hands. He always slips into a heavier French lisp when he’s agitated; Arthur watches this with detached curiosity. The house is empty, or might as well be, and he can feel the reverberations of Francis’ dramatics.

‘I cannot believe you sometimes! I came all this way! People are not so unsympathetic as you think, do you know? Why do you make everything so complicated? Give me some credit for once. You would have far more friends than you think if you just let them be friends.’

Arthur breathes through his nose. Why not? Francis has the best cigarettes. They’re the same height, but Francis has more presence, Francis knows how to command a room. As if he could say no to Francis. Francis has only just stepped into Arthur’s lonely house and yet it already seems that he’s the point from which all sunlight and sound flows in. Everybody’s a little in love with Francis at some point and no one will ever date him.

Arthur may be slightly drunk. He’s been combing through his parents’ liquor cabinet to help himself sleep. He says, ‘Fine, you win. Give me a minute to pack.’

It’s a dizzy surprise to find himself wobbling across his room to the wardrobe. Framed golden in the doorway, Francis has the cheek to widen his eyes in faux-innocence.

‘What do you mean, win? I’m not here to argue with you.’

‘Could have handled it a bit better then, couldn’t you?’ Arthur zips up his overnight bag and tosses one last glance over his shoulder at the shut windows, the sweating curtains. Francis is already pushing himself off the doorframe with one hand, sleek with satisfaction. ‘All right, let’s go.’

Arthur can picture himself in ten years’ time, in twenty: a tiny flat, not too new, on the edges of the city where the air is almost clear and a cat, maybe a dog (Arthur has no preference) and reading the newspaper in the evenings with no visitors. Grocery shopping once a week. His hair turning grey in the luxury of complete isolation. He knows better than to think that’d ever work out. Arthur is too ambitious to not be miserable.

‘Here,’ says Francis, tossing him an extra pillow once they’ve gotten into Francis’ room. Arthur has snuck into the dorm enough times but never with Francis, and this is a dazzling new experience for him. He makes straight for the bed. ‘You can use my soap. They do not check the rooms at this time of year, but if they do… oh, just get into the wardrobe. I hope you are not going to nap?’

‘No,’ replies Arthur guiltily. He sits up in bed and gets his back against the wall. ‘My body clock’s fucked up enough as it is. I brought a book.’

Francis, fastidiously toeing their shoes into line beside the door, almost smiles.

‘Of course you did.’

‘Had dinner?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Then Francis sighs. ‘You haven’t eaten. _Why am I not surprised_. Well, there is always Gilbert’s room, it’s fully stocked.’

‘Ah,’ Arthur says, ‘it’s fine, thanks.’

Francis pauses. The expression on his face, when he turns, is one of pure exasperation.

‘Is everything all right between you two?’

Arthur busies himself with pulling the blankets up to his chest. ‘Yes, of course.’

Francis gives him a look.

‘All right. I haven’t seen him in over a week. How is he?’

Rather than answer the question, Francis asks, ‘Shall I make him come over?’

Arthur, for all that he’d rather die than admit it, has a lot of respect for Francis’ powers of persuasion. He values them like you’d weigh up a prize racehorse. ‘No, don’t. It’s fine.’

Francis’ eyebrows rise.

‘Not if he’s not fine, I’ll only make it worse.’

Francis concedes this point with a shrug. He pads across the room in the fading evening, bare feet tacking to the floorboards. ‘I’m sleeping early tonight.’

‘Right,’ Arthur says, disbelieving. Francis has a habit of swearing he’ll sleep early (today! this week! this month!) and then you find him up at two smoking cigarette after cigarette with ink-stained fingers. How the bastard is still alive and functioning, Arthur will never know. ‘Go ahead and turn the lights off. I’ll read by my phone flashlight.’

‘Ah, _oui_ ,’ says Francis with the air of a stage magician whipping off the handkerchief. ‘That means you will have to turn on your phone, no?’

Arthur is crazily tempted to point finger guns and say _you got me there_! He doesn’t. Obviously he doesn’t. He sticks his feet out and waggles them, instead. Francis is looking increasingly bemused.

‘You know, I rather think I will.’

Francis, yawning, pauses mid-pace to examine his reflection in the dim windowpane. He runs a hand through his hair absent-mindedly. ‘Antonio is coming over to keep you company. There’s some meeting for the French boarders I have to go to, in a little while.’

‘All right.’

‘All right,’ echoes Francis, visibly restraining himself from flinging up his hands yet another time. God bless Francis and his tendencies. ‘Look, Arthur, we will talk about it once, and then never again, but first grant me this.’

‘Talk about what?’

Francis’ face says _are you fucking serious right now?_ Arthur is not fucking serious. He’s been building up to this for… oh, months, maybe years. He had it coming. It’s a relief to have the year-end breakdown over with, really. And then there’s Gilbert cavalier as always, going _oh, yeah, right on schedule_.

Francis settles down on his own bed, crossing his ankles, and stares Arthur down. He doesn’t do a very good job of it. Arthur has years of practice with Francis.

‘I only want to know this one thing: when will you be getting a doctor’s note?’

Arthur blinks. ‘I’m not.’

‘What?’ Francis demands. ‘Why not?’

‘I don’t need it?’ Arthur says, honestly thrown.

‘God help me,’ says Francis to the ceiling. ‘Of course you must get a doctor’s note. Finals are forty percent of the grade and if they give you a zero on the lit final, you’ll fail. No —’ He silences Arthur with a wave of his hand. ‘No, let me explain. You’ve done well for the rest of the year but nobody gets one hundred percent for literature. Maths, perhaps. You’ve got… what? Eighty? Eighty-five? Without your final, I do not think you can hit fifty percent overall. They’ll let you go on to senior year but you will have to drop lit as a subject.’

Arthur laughs. He has to.

Francis’ forehead wrinkles in concern. It’s testament to how far Arthur has come that he can recognise the expression for what it is, now.

He should be saying something. ‘Oh, well,’ Arthur manages at last, feeling unreasonably cheerful. ‘So I miscalculated. I’m terrible at maths, it’s no surprise.’

Francis closes his eyes and takes a breath. ‘No, you are not,’ he says, voice rising in frustration. ‘You are _fine_ , Arthur. Why are you… why do you do this? Did you pick it up from Gilbert? Of all the areas where you could be influenced by Gilbert, perhaps for the better, you go and manage to get the devastatingly low self-esteem. Only you. Only you could… Listen, I don’t care. You will make an appointment with Dr Vargas and talk to him, properly, and you’ll get a doctor’s note on that lit final and most importantly you will get _help_.’

* * *

_WhatsApp, 8:16pm_

**You:** yes antonio was v helpful

 **You:** i drank some water and am no longer suicidal

 **Matt:** c’mon man

* * *

Here’s the first problem: Gilbert doesn’t hear about the Tuesday lit final till Thursday, from Matthew, since Gilbert has doubled down on his no-human-interaction policy and who is he if he doesn’t stick to his guns? Here’s the second: he doesn’t do anything about it.

Gilbert is a shitty person and he hates himself for it, and — he manages to shower, today, and he opens his books but just looking at the diagrams fills him with so much dread that he leaves them on his bedside table as if the physics syllabus will seep into his brain overnight. Time’s slippery and the people around him a haze; Thursday is an afternoon paper and he’s crossing the quad in the one o’clock dampness, vaguely aware of the air around him. Gilbert is legitimately wondering if the changing of the seasons has got anything to do with his moods. He’ll take any explanation he can get at this point.

He nearly walks into the path of a car on his way to take the physics paper. Behind him, Feliks Łukasiewicz curses and yanks him back onto the curb by his collar.

‘What are you _doing_?’

He doesn’t know. He sits for the exam and barely remembers any of it. He is negative space.

Gilbert misses Arthur a lot; he looks for Arthur, afterwards, but Arthur’s nowhere to be seen and he hears from Kiku that Arthur hasn’t been around this whole week.

Gilbert says, ‘Okay.’

And then he goes back to his room and sleeps for four hours because he doesn’t have anything better to do.

* * *

_Facebook messages, 11:04pm_

**Elizabeta:** Gilbert!!!!!

 **You:** elizabeta!!!!!

 **Elizabeta:** Are you ok

 **You:** yeah why

 **Elizabeta:** Why didn’t you come for class outing???? We missed you

 **You:** nah sorry im calling bs

 **Elizabeta:** What do you mean??

* * *

_Facebook messages, 12:23am_

**Elizabeta:** Don’t ignore me asshole

 **Elizabeta:** I know you’re not just being slow about replying, you’re always online and we all know how fast you type

 **Elizabeta:** I’m checking up on you bc I’m your friend!! I’m allowed to do that once in a while!!!!

 **You:** i just didnt want to come, im allowed to do that once in a while

 **You:** also can u not. use so many exclamation marks. it stresses me out

 **Elizabeta:** Oh my god

 **Elizabeta:** You’re actually using punctuation this must be serious

 **Elizabeta:** Also can you not be a dick for once

 **You:** next thing you know ill be typing with UPPERCASE LETTERS

 **Elizabeta:** OH NO

 **Elizabeta:** But seriously what’s going on?

 **You:** _typing…_

 **Elizabeta:** You’ll feel better if you talk about it!

 **You:** conversations??? about feelings???? this goes against all my Training TM. i must leave

 **Elizabeta:** REALLY?

* * *

And here’s Antonio, day two of Francis-imposed babysitter duties, shouldering his way into the room with a paper bag of breadsticks: ‘There you are!’

Arthur has done the impossible. He sent a quick email to Dr Vargas last night, feet propped on Bondevik’s old desk; Francis would never go so far as to actually read it, but he was definitely breathing down Arthur’s neck the whole time. It’s too late to take anything back. Now Arthur is sitting up in bed with his laptop on his knees, sorting out the last details for debate camp, when Antonio’s weight hits the bed beside him and the sheets are suddenly full of the warm summer scent of Antonio’s skin.

Arthur doesn’t look up. He continues typing briskly. His wrists hurt. ‘Are your finals over?’

‘Yeah,’ says Antonio. He taps the top of Arthur’s head. ‘Wanna watch a movie?’

‘I’m busy.’

‘You’re _boring_. Give me your laptop.’ Antonio reaches into Arthur’s space as he always does, all spice-scented breath and sharp elbows, and Arthur lets him wrest the laptop away. ‘Okay, let’s do this. Francis’ room usually has pretty good wifi.’

‘Are you using the boarding house network to torrent movies?’

Antonio turns his bright uncomplicated smile on Arthur and something in Arthur’s chest unknots. ‘I mean, I’m not _not_ doing it.’

Arthur laughs. Antonio, eyebrows knitting in concentration, is typing something into the search bar.

‘Gilbert knows you’re here, by the way.’

Arthur’s warm and comfortable and Antonio’s voice is like honey beside him. He’s quite sure Antonio has read all of his emails by now. He doesn’t care much, to be honest. Antonio will be Antonio, regardless of Arthur’s feelings on the matter. ‘What did he say?’

‘He didn’t say anything.’

Arthur doesn’t say anything either, but he can’t exactly control his facial expressions.

‘Oh, Arthur,’ Antonio says, glancing up, and takes Arthur’s face in his hands and presses his lips to Arthur’s forehead.

Arthur will forever wonder if he simply likes Antonio as a source of cheap affection. His throat is raw. It’d be so easy and so _nice_ , and Arthur is technically single and he’s quite fond of letting himself have nice things, after the year he’s had — nice and familiar, Antonio running his hands down Arthur’s sides and the velvet of his mouth. Arthur’ll take what he can get. He’s got the pillow hugged to his chest, just for something to fill his arms once the laptop is gone. It’d be so easy to set the pillow down and lean over and —

Francis, of course, chooses that moment to walk in.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Watching a movie,’ Antonio responds smoothly. Neither of them move. Antonio’s head is still on Arthur’s shoulder and Francis raises his eyebrows, but thankfully says nothing.

Now Antonio addresses Francis over Arthur’s head: ‘What does he like, huh? Monty Python?’

‘You don’t have to cater to what I like,’ Arthur mutters into the pillow.

‘Indeed we don’t,’ says Francis, speaking very slowly and clearly. ‘You see, the problem is that we want to. Because we are your friends. Antonio, it’s like talking to a child.’

‘Arthur thinks he’s bad at relationships,’ Antonio reports.

‘He is,’ Francis agrees at once. Then he frowns at Arthur and adds, ‘However, I think that’s mostly because you fucked your twenty-something neighbour when you were fourteen and then he abandoned you when he went back to university.’

Arthur groans into Antonio’s shoulder. ‘Do you have to bring that up every time?’

‘Francis psychoanalyses everyone,’ Antonio assures him, ‘it’s not only you, don’t worry.’

The rest of the week goes a little better. Arthur drags himself to class, when class starts again, and lets the blank day trickle in at one end of him and out at the other. Most things are as expected — he has a painful conversation with his lit tutor, and a slightly less painful one with Dr Vargas with the promise of another appointment — and he has debate camp to focus on, anyway. His other grades are more or less just as he predicted: did well for history and French, not so well for econs (everyone did badly for econs). He’s gotten a B on his maths final, which is fine by Arthur. Francis and Wang Yao are still fighting over the title of senior year valedictorian and Arthur is not capable of, or interested in, carrying on _that_ student-council-president tradition — at any rate, it’ll be Durand next year. She deserves it. Arthur is… close enough, but not of that calibre, and it’s a surprise to learn that he is perfectly all right with that. All he can think about is Gilbert silently making the _okay?_ sign with finger and thumb in Arthur’s direction after the maths final.

Arthur gets out of class earlier these days. They’re just going through papers in school and soon that’ll give way to the post-finals schedule of field trips and extracurriculars. The seniors finish even earlier, so the light’s on in Francis’ room when he returns to the dorm and he can hear Antonio’s brittle laughter from just outside the door.

Gilbert’s not there. Antonio and Francis are both smoking.

Francis’ cheeks are flushed with wine and he looks up and goes _ah!_ in a pleased sort of way, and rearranges his long body to drape both legs heavily over Arthur’s lap.

‘At this time of day?’ asks Arthur, lifting up the wine bottle on Francis’ desk by the neck.

‘You’re one to judge,’ Antonio croaks. He coughs into the crook of his elbow. ‘Got a D in biology. Put that down, asshole, it cost me fifteen quid.’

‘Fifteen quid for _this_ piss water? The country’s going to the dogs.’

‘I wouldn’t feed this to my dog.’

‘Alcohol is poisonous to dogs, Antonio,’ explains Francis with long-suffering patience.

‘You smoke too bloody much,’ Arthur says, and Francis gives him a sidelong grin. ‘Give me some of that. Cheer up, won’t you? Your quizzes and labs will bump you up.’

‘Gilbert’s been avoiding our room.’ Antonio hands Arthur his cigarette. He’s stolen Francis’ favourite spot in the window, and the room is full of smoke — smoke and the general clutter of clothes piling up on furniture, which has only gotten worse since Arthur moved in. Arthur hasn’t sunk to the level of stealing Francis’ clothes yet, but he is getting uncomfortably close.

‘ _My_ room, surely,’ Francis protests.

‘Our room,’ repeats Antonio as if he hasn’t heard anything. ‘Actually, you’ve been avoiding each other. What’s up with that?’

‘The three of you are astonishingly codependent, do you know.’ Arthur takes a puff and passes the cigarette back to Antonio. Francis is watching them both like a rabbit in long grass. ‘What’s he going to do when you two graduate?’

‘We’re not his only friends.’ Antonio sounds amused.

‘Francis, do you mind opening a fucking window, or would that ruin your _aesthetic_?’

‘I will throw you out of a window, and then you will be sorry,’ says Francis.

This is what Arthur has been avoiding: he hasn’t seen Gilbert in forever and they’ve been halfheartedly texting, maybe, if their bone-bare exchanges and the long gaps between messages can even qualify as texting. Arthur is very certain this isn’t how dating someone is supposed to work. This isn’t how not-dating someone is supposed to work. He wakes up in the middle of the night (and doesn’t call Gilbert, even though Gilbert called him once, and twice more after that, because why should Gilbert worry about Arthur when he obviously doesn’t trust Arthur enough to tell him everything?) and thinks: there isn’t anything to their relationship, really, beyond loneliness and a craving for someone, anyone.

This is how it doesn’t happen.

Arthur’s sitting up in bed at one, at three, four-thirty, five in the morning; and he thinks he’s being quiet about it but he’s tossing and turning one night, heavy and ill with fatigue, when the floorboards creak and he comes fully awake to Francis getting into the bed beside him.

‘What are you doing?’

Francis gives a drowsy, irritated sniff. He’s brought his own pillow and blanket with him, since Francis is constantly feeling cold, and it’s a bit crowded for comfort.

‘I’m not touching you. Just… wake me if you need anything.’

Although Arthur appreciates the thought, this really doesn’t help much. Francis takes up more than his fair share of the bed. Francis _smells_. Arthur has to lie as still as possible — Francis is invariably grouchy in the mornings before he’s had his coffee and there’s no reason to think he’ll be anything else if his sleep gets interrupted.

And yet. Listening to somebody else’s breathing, tucked under the too-heavy blankets, is somehow soothing, and if he wakes with his nose smushed into Francis’ shoulder neither of them say anything about it. In the evenings they have long smoke-filled conversations, and at the end of one Francis pauses and says, ‘I will not be seeing you next year, you know. I will be back in Paris for the first half of the year and then I’m off to university.’

‘I’ll Skype you.’

‘Good.’

And it’s not perfect and he’s not perfect but on Saturday night, when Arthur’s saying into the phone, ‘Yes, come over and save me, Antonio, I can hear him laughing at nihilistic French memes from across the room at this very moment,’ he realises he’s about as happy as he’s ever been.

* * *

_Telegram, 1:46am_

**Antonio:** yeah, well that’s what arthur does

 **Antonio:** breaks up with people when he thinks they’re about to break up with him so he can feel like he’s still in control

 **You:** smart move

* * *

Gilbert gets his papers back over the course of the next few days. He passes econs, he passes physics. He scrapes an A for German — languages aren’t his strong suit even if it is his native language, so this is a pleasant surprise for him. He _aces_ maths, which is a bigger surprise. His lowest grade is a borderline C (for econs). He’s done it. He has no failing grades. He doesn’t have to retake any of his exams this year. He’s tried — god, he’s tried so hard, this year — and now he’s definitely making it to senior year. No question. He worked hard and he did well and he proved to himself that he could do it.

His name is Gilbert Beilschmidt and he gives up.

It’s when you’re brushing your teeth in the morning and look in the mirror and out of nowhere it tells you _you are a failure and will never have any friends_ that you know it’s time to give up. He spends pale evenings on the Internet and the hours slip by and he ends up slipping out of _another_ stupid briefing about updating their profiles on the school’s online portal, because Elizabeta and Łukasiewicz are talking so fucking loudly and he can’t make them stop. Finals are over and there’s no point. Nobody stops him on his way out — he’s trained the rest of his class to get the hell out of the way when Beilschmidt is pissed off. And he’s a little jealous of Łukasiewicz and Elizabeta’s rosy friendship, maybe, and a little bitter because Arthur has one panic attack and Francis drops everything to babysit him.

Gilbert’s an asshole and he doesn’t have any positive emotions, he doesn’t think he even _likes_ Arthur all that much, does he, does he like _anyone_ , he doesn’t have room for anything except being so incredibly self-absorbed: _do you_ want _your friends to worry about you?_ (And the answer is yes, yes he does.) He’s on the roof again — skip the details, he knows the drill — and he is so sick of this cycle repeating itself every year.

He sets his back against the water tank, sets his forehead on his knees, leans back again and looks at the bleary dripping sky and breathes. This bleak fucking weather. Funnily enough, he was fine whenever it was winter in Germany; funny, isn’t it?

At last he pulls out his phone (he doesn’t have the energy even to hold out this long by himself, it’s pathetic) and texts Antonio: _hey im on the library roof_ , tone all casual. You know how it goes. Antonio knows how it goes. Fifteen minutes later Antonio is pulling himself up the ladder and wriggling through the trapdoor by his elbows.

Gilbert thinks of Arthur — of his smooth voice, how happy he gets when he sees Gilbert — and tries to keep a little of that realness in him.

‘So you figured it out all by yourself, huh.’ He winces at the condescension in his voice.

‘I’ve known how to get onto the roof since second year,’ says Antonio. ‘I just didn’t want you to be alone.’

* * *

This is how it happens.

It’s nearly eleven o’clock at night, the last night before Arthur heads off to debate camp on Monday, when Gilbert slips into the room silently. He’s got to stop doing that — it’s startled Arthur more than once. Still, Arthur is dozing off and on, the overhead light flushing Francis’ room gold, and he opens his eyes just in time to see Gilbert leave a stack of stapled pages on the bedside table and slide under the covers next to Arthur without saying anything.

Arthur’s heart lurches into his throat.

‘Our maths assignment,’ Gilbert mumbles, pressing his mouth to the hollow of Arthur’s throat. Arthur doesn’t even bother to reach over and look at the grade. ‘Mmm, you smell nice.’

‘I just showered.’ Arthur tucks his chin on top of Gilbert’s head. Francis is conspicuously absent; they must’ve planned this. His heart is pounding. ‘Tired?’

‘Mmm.’ Gilbert closes his eyes. His eyelashes are unbearably long. They tickle Arthur’s collarbone. Arthur gets one arm comfortably over Gilbert’s shoulders and Gilbert makes an appreciative humming sound, soft and tentative as a stray animal being coaxed closer.

‘Sleep.’

‘Mm-hmm.’

Arthur glances down at Gilbert — his slack mouth, the little furrow between his eyebrows — and dizziness curls through him so quickly he can’t tell whether it’s relief or unease. He drifts off easily enough; it’s the way Gilbert smells, probably.

About half an hour later, though, Gilbert is moving about under the blankets and nudging at Arthur’s jaw and whispering, ‘Hey. Hey.’

‘Do you want to talk?’

‘Sure,’ Gilbert replies, his voice rough with sleep. ‘C’mere.’

Arthur is not sure how he is supposed to get any nearer to Gilbert when they’re pressed together like two puppies coiled in a basket. This is somehow more intimate than sex. The lamp hums beside them. He reaches over Gilbert to pull the cord and turn it off — it’s easier to have conversations in the dark. Gilbert looks physically ill. It is honestly hard to look at him. He’s lost some weight, and the skin stretches green and fragile over the bones of his face. Arthur loves him hard enough to hurt.

‘How are you?’ Gilbert asks in a whisper. Unnecessarily, Arthur finds himself dropping his own voice to match Gilbert’s. It must be the lack of light that’s making them talk in undertones.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Besides “I’m straight”, that’s probably the biggest lie you’ve ever told.’

Arthur snorts softly. ‘Be fair. I never did say that.’

‘Really?’

He turns his cheek to press it to Gilbert’s hair. He wouldn’t be surprised in the least to find that Gilbert washes his hair with bar soap, and yet it’s softer and shinier than anybody else’s. Good teeth, too. Bloody genetics. ‘Yeah. How _did_ you come out?’

‘I didn’t. I was outed.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah, Arthur. Oh.’ Gilbert raises himself on one elbow, T-shirt rucking up in the warm confusion of the bedclothes. He blinks rapidly several times. ‘I see you changing the subject. You’re very clever.’

‘I’d really rather not talk about it,’ Arthur says, weary irritation rising in him. He wants to cuddle. Can you blame him? ‘I’m not five. I don’t need all this _attention_. And you? What about you?’

Gilbert is quiet for a second or two. His features are softer in the darkness, less fiercely angled; he looks younger, vulnerable, and Arthur wants to keep him. He’s missed this: the way Gilbert tastes, that peculiar sweetness to his smile.

‘Yeah, what just happened — a week of radio silence — can we, you know, can we not do that?’

Arthur stares at him.

‘You’re the one who ignored my texts.’

‘They were superficial! They didn’t mean anything! Things like, “I heard you did well for maths,” and “are you coming for the class outing,” and —’

‘Where _were_ you? You were the only person who wasn’t there.’

‘Rub it in, why don’t you?’ Gilbert jerks up in bed, and Arthur pulls himself up into a sitting position. ‘I was worried! I wanted to know how you’ve been, not this “oh, I’m fine, just ran out of tea,” bullshit. People are concerned about you sometimes, is that so hard to believe?’

‘You’re such a hypocrite,’ says Arthur, more amused than anything now. The warmth of their bodies is gone, all that satiny sleep-heat accumulated beneath the blankets with Gilbert’s hands balled up in Arthur’s shirt, and the best he can do is lean against the wall centimetres away from Gilbert’s pale determined face. ‘ _You_ be straight with me, now — yes, I did that on purpose,’ as Gilbert lets out the start of a laugh before catching himself, ‘— you have to tell me what’s going on if you want to make this work. You isolate yourself and get angry when I let you be alone —’

Gilbert’s voice rises out of control. ‘No, I don’t —’

‘Yes, you do. On a related note, are we together or not? Because I have _no fucking idea_. And if we’re not, why are you even bothering to be here?’

Gilbert sort of half-giggles into Arthur’s shoulder. A moment later he raises his head and Arthur sweeps a thumb over Gilbert’s wet eyelashes. ‘Fuck, I thought you knew what you were doing.’

‘What? I don’t. I thought _you_ knew. Between the two of us, someone has to.’

‘Oh my god. We’re fucked.’

‘We’re fucked.’

‘This is pretty funny.’

‘I love you,’ Arthur says.

Gilbert says: ‘Is this _really the time_?’ and Arthur winces.

‘I don’t know if there will be a better time.’

A wary expression passes over Gilbert’s face — their eyes have gotten used to the darkness by now, and they’re sitting close enough to see each other just fine — but he doesn’t ask any questions. Instead he says in a quieter voice, low enough that Arthur has to lean in to hear him, ‘I’m not doing so good.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll be okay. It’s like this every year. I’ve just been having a bad day… okay, a bad week… month…’

Arthur smiles into Gilbert’s hair. ‘It’s all right to have breakdowns now and then.’

‘You have no idea how thankful I am that somebody else is using that word,’ says Gilbert. ‘Shit. I think everything since third year has been one long breakdown.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Arthur says wryly. ‘I’m not invalidating what you’re going through, mind, what do I know — I’m just, you know, I’m telling you I can empathise.’

He can hear the amusement creeping into Gilbert’s tone. ‘You’re pretty good at communicating.’

‘I _wish_.’ He sets his chin on Gilbert’s shoulder, just so he doesn’t have to look Gilbert in the eye while saying what he’s about to say. Gilbert lets him do it — lets him breathe, lips against cool skin. ‘Sooner or later, you’re going to up and leave.’

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ says Gilbert blankly.

‘Having alienated everybody who ever gave two shits about me,’ Arthur continues, on a roll now and desperately afraid that this is the only chance at honesty he’s got, ‘I’ve really got to warn you ahead of time, you see. I push people away, it’s nothing personal —’

‘That’s bullshit,’ Gilbert interrupts. He’s angrier than he’s ever been. ‘You hear me? Look here, I’ll show you how it’s bullshit.’ He begins counting off on his fingers. ‘I see your self-esteem issues and raise you Kiku, Francis, Alfred Jones, Matthew —’

‘Only a matter of time.’

Gilbert gazes at Arthur for a long moment. ‘You’re all kinds of stupid today.’

‘Could say the same for you, some days,’ Arthur shoots back. After a pause, Gilbert acknowledges this with a tiny nod. ‘Look after yourself, won’t you? You idiot.’

Gilbert’s smile is not quite there, but it’s open and almost sweet. It makes Arthur’s throat close up. ‘I will if you will.’

‘Ah, that’s where I’ve outdone you. I’m seeing Dr Vargas and you should too.’

‘Shit.’ Gilbert whistles. ‘You actually did it. _Francis_.’

‘Did you know…?’

‘I knew he wanted to go over to your place. I didn’t know he was planning to fucking install you in our dorm like some chief mistress.’ The bitterness in those words snaps Arthur’s eyes open, but Gilbert’s ploughing recklessly ahead. ‘You really underestimate how much Francis and Antonio care about you.’

‘You underestimate how much _I_ care about you.’

‘Do I?’ demands Gilbert. ‘Because from here it looks like you’re just out to feel good about yourself. You like me because I like you, plain and simple —’

‘That’s not true!’

‘— you’ll do anything to feel wanted, huh? For all I know you’re still sleeping with Antonio and I just don’t know what you want.’

‘Are you serious?’

Gilbert’s eyes are wide. He’s scared: he doesn’t want to know the answer. ‘No.’

Arthur thinks of his own blind needs and their classmates’ open delight when Gilbert, defying all expectations except Arthur’s, made the Dean’s list for their maths final, and the sick gratitude with which he received every little kindness and gesture and scrap of _attention_ Gilbert’s ever given him. He thinks: there’s nothing between them except this cold hunger, when they’ve come down to the marrow of it. Their thighs are brushing, and Gilbert pulls his legs up to his chest and rests his wrists on his knees; he looks like someone starving. They’re pressed side to side and the physical contact is searing, as whole as Arthur’s ever felt.

Arthur takes the easy route, the cowardly route. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

‘What?’

‘Look,’ Arthur says in the reasonable voice Gilbert _hates_ , since Arthur only uses it when he is proposing something the opposite of reasonable, ‘clearly this is causing you some stress, so maybe we should stop seeing each other —’

‘It doesn’t!’

‘Well, maybe it causes _me_ stress! What do you have to say to that?’

The stricken look on Gilbert’s face is enough to remind Arthur that he was right to turn off the lamp; of course, the darkness doesn’t help. They’re too close for comfort. He can see clearly enough. His imagination can fill in the blanks.

‘Please don’t break up with me,’ Gilbert says.

‘There’s nothing to break up, Beilschmidt,’ Arthur says. ‘You made that very clear at the start of this. Now, I have to get up at six tomorrow for camp and I’d really like to sleep, if you don’t mind.’

There’s an instant of perfect silence. It’s all the more striking since they’ve been nearly shouting; Arthur is surprised that no one has come to bang on their door yet, or that their next-door neighbours haven’t been pounding on the wall. Perhaps the walls are thick. Perhaps Francis doesn’t have a next-door neighbour. Perhaps (and this is a wild thought, but he’s not thinking rationally) it’s Francis next door, eavesdropping and preparing a verdict. And this is what Arthur hates about Gilbert-Francis-Antonio, that coalition of strangers: their near-telepathy and their angular inside jokes, how they don’t do anything without consulting each other first.

Gilbert bites his lip. Then he gets out of bed, leaving the air abruptly cold. His movements are jerky and harsh. He very deliberately doesn’t glance in Arthur’s direction.

Gilbert slams the door on his way out.

* * *

_WhatsApp, 7:52am_

**Antonio:** called it

 **You:** Go fuck yourself

 **Antonio:** go fix it

 **Antonio:** :)

* * *

_iMessage, 9:43am_

**You:** I know

 **Francis:** Well

 **Francis:** All things considered, I do appreciate that you waited until finals were over to break up with Gilbert

 **You:** Please don’t

* * *

_WhatsApp, 9:50am_

**Matt:** look dude

 **Matt:** you know I usually NEVER do this, but

 **Matt:** how did you manage to screw up a 1+ month relationship

 **Matt:** like

 **Matt:** I didn’t even know that was possible

**You:**

**You:** _typing…_

* * *

_WhatsApp, 10:14am_

**You:** whod you hear that from

 **Matt:** Arthur

 **You:** your bro?

 **Matt:** it’s not all over the school dw

 **You:** lmao that bad huh

 **Matt:** idk he seemed fine

 **Matt:** are you okay?

 **You:** id really appreciate it if everybody else MINDED THEIR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS

 **You:** WHY DO YOU HAVE TO KNOW

 **You:** why was my first thought ‘oh its gotta be jones’ what does alfred f jones have to do with any of this you tell me

 **You:** oh wait hes only arthurs best friend whom arthur tells FUCKING EVERYTHING

 **You:** fucking leave me alone i think im entitled to a little privacy about my personal life now and then

* * *

_WhatsApp, 11:19pm_

**Kiku:** You’ve been acting strange, is something the matter?

 **You:** i’m fine. i think you sent this to the wrong person

* * *

In the last week of school, Gilbert meets Francis at one of the cafés in town. Francis and Antonio have had their graduation ceremony — school ties and white button-down shirts, Antonio clumsy in his new shoes, Francis magazine-cover gorgeous — and they aren’t doing anything nowadays, except lazing around in bed and playing video games in the common room and packing for their flights home. Gilbert has a plane flight of his own to catch, two weeks from now, and frankly he’s never been happier.

Shivering in the outdoors air, Gilbert pulls Antonio’s jacket closer about himself and sits down. Francis is already seated at their little corner table, nursing a hot latte and tapping ash off the end of his cigarette.

‘So this is where you chain-smoked for hours while writing your philo paper, huh? Not bad.’

Francis smiles, deepening the lines in his stubble-worn face. He’s beginning to grow his hair out again, to skip the shave in the mornings; it hits Gilbert hard, all of a sudden, how quickly they’re all leaving. ‘I can make one coffee last the whole day.’ He nods in the direction of the counter, which has a queue snaking out through the doors of the café. It’s warmer inside and all the seats there are taken. ‘Go get yourself something to eat. I’m not hungry.’

Gilbert tsks at him, _you need to eat more_ , but goes. Some things aren’t worth fighting about.

Over a bagel and an egg sandwich Francis says, ‘Honestly, I could not be happier. I believe Antonio can get into a decent university if he wants to go. You’re on the Dean’s list for maths. To me, that is nothing short of phenomenal, considering how badly you were doing at the start of… I’m sorry. I realise there is no way I can tell you this without sounding incredibly condescending. But I am proud of you. Very much so.’

Gilbert grins, sharp. ‘Yeah, you’re right. That _was_ pretty condescending. Don’t sweat it. I bet you’re way nicer in French.’

Francis’ frown is quieter and less overblown than his usual theatrics, more pensive than anything. Already he feels like a stranger to Gilbert, far removed from the new regime of next year: Arthur Kirkland and Alfred Jones, swaggering princes of St. Catherine’s, holding court in the hallways marbled with sunlight. Football and debate are behind them now. It’s on to the student council and prefectorial board and their names side by side on the wooden boards outside the auditorium where the school puts up little planks with the names of top students who’ve won some award or other. Probably. Sooner or later. Francis is there, of course (Gilbert thinks this with a swell of pride) — in graceful gilt letters, _FRANCIS BONNEFOY_. His parents might be proud if they cared. Gilbert, for his part, never had any clubs to leave behind.

He squashes down the thought. He’s flying back to Germany for the holidays.

‘I don’t think the language makes a difference. It is just me.’

‘ _Francis_ ,’ Gilbert says, flicking Francis’ hand. Francis, curiously inelegant for once, drops his cigarette on the table and snatches it up with a curse. ‘It’s okay. I’d still love you if you, I don’t know, fired a cannon at me. It’s just that I’d fire one back.’

‘You always know exactly what to say.’ After all these years Francis’ lofty, brilliant smile still lights up everything. They don’t quite feel complete without Antonio (Antonio is down at Feliciano’s office for a compulsory career counselling session, which they all know Antonio gives exactly zero shits about), but you know what? They’re not such bad company for each other. ‘Your brother must be very proud of you, I am sure. Even if he doesn’t say so in those words.’ Though Francis only took physics for one term, he’s got a pretty accurate impression of Ludwig’s personality. ‘And your godfather, too. Have you told him yet?’

‘Fritz? No. My report card’s not out yet. Think he’d want to hear it from me first?’

‘Of course.’ Francis takes a drag, studying Gilbert’s face coolly. For someone so warm and caring at his core, Francis’ calculative stare can still be unnerving every time. Gilbert knows he himself is at least just as intimidating, so he bears it. ‘I knew you could do it.’

‘Ha! That makes one of us. _I_ didn’t. My teachers didn’t.’

Francis sniffs derisively. ‘Then they are very stupid. They must not know how impressive you are in German.’

‘I’ve been learning English since I was five. You’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel here, aren’t you?’

‘Be quiet for once and let me compliment you,’ Francis snaps, but there’s no heat in the words. After a moment he meets Gilbert’s eyes again, over the rim of his steaming cup, and they both laugh.

‘Got a surprise for you,’ says Gilbert, moving the remnants of his sandwich around on his plate. ‘I went to see Feli.’

Francis’ double-take is gratifying; then, predictably, he settles into smug satisfaction.

‘Good. What did he say?’

‘I promised Arthur I would.’ Gilbert swallows. He sees Francis opening his mouth to speak and cuts him off. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. By the way, I don’t have ADHD, I’m just a fuck-up. I checked.’

Francis looks at him. ‘You are not a fuck-up.’

‘Don’t you ever get tired of telling me that?’

‘Honestly? Yes, but will I stop doing it? Never.’


	10. the courage of stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: [saturn by sleeping at last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dzNvk80XY9s)

♥ **184 likes**

 **bonroibonnefoy** A beautiful day with beautiful friends \o/ :D // Off to uni in September – I’m going to miss you both!

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**spacebarista** you guys are so sappy jfc

 **mattweiler** boy knows his angles

 **spacebarista** @mattweiler tru tho. hot damn

 

bonroibonnefoy

 **Francis** To stray is human. To saunter is Parisian. – Victor Hugo

 **106** posts **794** followers **655** following

 

mattweiler

 **Matthew** don’t mistake me for my brother @spacebarista

 **13** posts **161** followers **209** following

 

spacebarista

 **alfred f jones** **✔** st cat’s soccer batch ’16 // scpb ’17 // OUTER SPACE IS RLY COOL

 **340** posts **992** followers **1048** following

* * *

_WhatsApp, 8:43pm_

**Alfred:** dude i mean this in a totally straight, man-to-man way don’t get me wrong

 **Alfred:** but like

 **Alfred:** _(screenshot of Francis’ latest Instagram post)_

 **Alfred:** ur bf is srsly good-looking like wtf

 **Alfred:** i’m mcfreakin losing it

 **You:** He’s not my boyfriend

 **Alfred:** what

 **Alfred:** OH

 **Alfred:** FUCK I FORGOT

 **You:** Haha don’t worry about it

* * *

It’s not a bad month, all things considered. He spends as many of his waking hours with Fritz, and Ludwig, and the dogs, as is humanly possible; he sends dumb Snapchats to Feliciano and Ludwig bakes more than they can eat. He walks the dogs. He walks his neighbours’ dogs. He cleans the house from top to bottom and compares notes with Kiku, who is also cleaning house at the exact same time. He Skypes his friends and watches Matthew burn pancakes — _the first time in my_ life _, Gilbert!_ — in a tiny, gleaming kitchen in New York with Jones’ voice rattling on indistinctly in the background, and sleeps in as late as he can, although Ludwig gets up at ungodly hours of the morning to go jogging. Fritz plays the flute. Gilbert plays video games. Gilbert and Ludwig watch B-list horror movies at night and scare the shit out of themselves (though they’ll never admit it), and Gilbert does forty sit-ups on his bedroom floor when Ludwig tries to give him an evidently much-rehearsed speech about how he knows he hasn’t been the best older brother but he loves Gilbert very much and he’s very proud of Gilbert.

They have maths homework for the holidays because of course they do. Gilbert scrambles through it during the last week, blasting Europop through his laptop’s tinny speakers, while Ludwig sets physics questions with the textbooks spread open on the desk and his reading glasses sliding down his nose. Gilbert is Dean’s list quality, don’t you forget that. He gets through their assigned series of maths problems with the most ease he’s had in years; he watches the video tutorials on the school portal, feet obnoxiously up on Ludwig’s desk. At the end of it, he drinks his brother under the table.

Fritz takes Gilbert to get a haircut. Fritz can outdrink them both, obviously.

Gilbert manages not to think about Arthur, and himself, and himself and Arthur, for a much larger proportion of the time than he expected. It’s only in the moments when he can’t catch himself — checking his email and remembering the time Arthur sent him a history essay (as if Gilbert’d be any help with editing essays) just because he thought Gilbert’d be interested in the topic (he was right), or hurrying past store windows when once Arthur paused, snowflakes settling on his nose, to look at some trinket or antique sword or whatever with his fingers curling over Gilbert’s in their shared coat pocket.

Gilbert is not over it. He doesn’t think about it. The weekend before their flight back, Gilbert and Ludwig bake a cake for Feliciano and then eat it all in a panic when they remember Feliciano has a peanut allergy and Ludwig is quietly sick into the toilet bowl and anyway — Feliciano is there to pick them up at the airport, and take them to dinner with Elizabeta, and this is a strange kind of school-family but Gilbert’s getting used to it.

* * *

_Telegram, 9:14pm_

**Alfred:** WHAT’S UP BEILSCHMIDT

 **Alfred:** so this is awkward but uh here goes

 **Alfred:** idk what went down w you and art i just wanna know if he’s ok

 **Alfred:** and to let you know that if you fucked with him i’ll kill you

 **Alfred:** _(bald eagle sticker)_

* * *

_WhatsApp, 10:25pm_

**You:** ok this is me checking whether you blocked me on whatsapp or

 **Arthur:** Why would I block you??

* * *

_Telegram, 11:29pm_

**You:** lol whats up jones

 **You:** take a screenshot and send this to arthur hell be touched to know u care

 **You:** ive got it under control dont u fret

 **You:** hate to break it to u but theres not much u can do considering he was the one who dumped my ass in the first place

 **You:** btw tell ur boy braginsky hi from me

 **Alfred:** what the fuck is a braginsky

* * *

_WhatsApp: “UM GUYS”, 11:31pm_

**Alfred F. Jones:** i fucked up

 **Francis Bonnefoy:** What did you do?

 **Matthew Williams:** gosh, Alfred, this is extremely rare and shocking! do tell us more

 **Alfred F. Jones:** i know right??

 **Matthew Williams:** :/

 **Francis Bonnefoy:** boYS

 **Matthew Williams:** also is this just the “blond squad w/o Arthur” chat? wyd

 **Alfred F. Jones:** YES

 **Alfred F. Jones:** BC I HAVE MADE

 **Alfred F. Jones:** a grave mistake

 **Matthew Williams:** you would NEVER

 **Francis Bonnefoy:** Shhhh

 **Alfred F. Jones:** i assumed beilschmidt broke up with arthur

 **Alfred F. Jones:** turns out it was the other way around

 **Alfred F. Jones:** what the hap is fuckening

 **Matthew Williams:** OH MY GOD I KNOW

 **Alfred F. Jones:** WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME

 **Alfred F. Jones:** WHY WOULD ART BREAK UP WITH BEILSCHMIDT????

 **Matthew Williams:** FUCKING THANK YOU I’VE BEEN SAYING THIS FOR WEEKS

 **Francis Bonnefoy:** Did you seriously not know??

 **Alfred F. Jones:** LIKE

 **Alfred F. Jones:** YOU HAVE TO ADMIT

 **Alfred F. Jones:** THE WAY I ASSUMED IT HAPPENED

 **Alfred F. Jones:** IS THE ONLY WAY ANYONE COULD IMAGINE IT GOING DOWN

 **Matthew Williams:** MY WORDS EXACTLY

 **Alfred F. Jones:** WHAT DO WE DO

 **Francis Bonnefoy:** DON’T INTERFERE

 **Matthew Williams:** WHAT

 **Francis Bonnefoy:** STOP GETTING INVOLVED

 **Alfred F. Jones:** WHAT

 **Francis Bonnefoy:** THEY WILL SORT THEMSELVES OUT

 **Alfred F. Jones:** rly rly?

 **Francis Bonnefoy:** RLY RLY

 **Matthew Williams:** but

 **Francis Bonnefoy:** Trust me

 **Matthew Williams:** ok maman I trust you

 **Francis Bonnefoy:** Why are you like this

 **Alfred F. Jones:** k that’s all i had to say thanks guys

 **Matthew Williams:** I cannot fucking bELIEVE YOU

 **Alfred F. Jones:** bye

_Alfred F. Jones left_

* * *

Here’s the new year come upon him so quickly he hardly notices its presence, hardly realises it’s here until he’s gotten used to it: Arthur Kirkland is a senior. The lecture halls are strangely empty without all the characters who haunted his younger days (he’s not saying Wang Yao was a goddamned legend, and he’s not saying Wang Yao _wasn’t_ a legend either). Arthur barely expects himself to fill their shoes — then he catches the prickle of first-years’ gazes sticking to his back as he hurries down the corridors and thinks: _oh god. It’s me._ I’m _the Scary Senior._

Anyway.

His days are busy enough that he can fill his spare hours with work, now, instead of the shambling lonely thoughts that brought him sweating awake all through last year’s nights. Arthur comes home so tired he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, and he stays asleep till morning; this is surprising, and new. His schedule’s chaotic. Arthur is good at making order out of chaos.

Sometimes he misses Francis and Antonio — Antonio is working odd jobs and visiting his brother, Francis interning at various firms — but that dissipates in the excitement of Open House. Open House! Hotly coloured banners rippling in the sun and performers flocking about the makeshift stage they’ve set up in the middle of the quad, and so many bug-eyed twelve-year-olds trailing behind their parents and the music blaring over the intercom is _terrible_ and Arthur is enjoying himself. He’s on his way to the student council booth outside the dining hall, having just breezed through a Q &A session with Alfred by his side, when he spots Gilbert on a bench.

Arthur’s taken the shortcut through the herb gardens. Gilbert, doing the most _Gilbert_ thing Arthur can possibly imagine, is very quietly and patiently feeding bread crumbs to a small crowd of devoted birds gathering around his feet.

Arthur’s heart stutters. He stops, hands nervous in his pockets. Gilbert looks up. Their eyes lock. Then Arthur hurries on.

Classes are swift and impersonal, these days. There’s very little mucking around; everyone knows they’ve got to wrangle their grades into an acceptable state by senior year. Arthur doesn’t think _Francis Francis Francis_ any more. He’s got his own targets to meet. There’s a list being passed around during one of their eternal admin briefings in the auditorium one day — people shortlisted by the many scholarship committees that come down to St. Cat’s, he’s realised, nearly every week. Arthur glances down at the names as it reaches him.

It’s in alphabetical order.

_SADIK ADNAN_

_NATALYA ARLOVSKAYA_

_GILBERT BEILSCHMIDT_

Arthur swallows. He never really thought about what a wild and marvellous force of nature Gilbert is until now, when he’s sensitive to Gilbert’s presence: feet up on the back of Kiku’s chair, head thrown back, a familiar laugh just round the corner that sets the back of Arthur’s neck tingling. Alfred is seated directly in front of Arthur, tie cheerfully off-centre. Arthur’s wearing Alfred’s jacket and it aches. He skips further down the list.

_ALFRED F. JONES_

_ARTHUR KIRKLAND_

_ LIN _ _YI LING_

This is good, this is safe. He signs next to his name and passes on the list to Kiku beside him.

They haven’t been allocated to the same interview slot, thank god. But he runs into Gilbert again as he’s heading home afterwards.

The light spring rain tittering against the windows of the conference room has given way to a full-on downpour. Arthur eyes the sodden grass between himself and the side gate dubiously. Gilbert, loitering just out of range beneath an overhang, is scowling. His hair and shoulders are already soaked. Pale and foreign, he’s got the straps of his bag wound tightly around his fingers and he’s staring off into the distance, frustrated by the rain that’s keeping him back when the dorms are _so near_ , probably wondering if he should make a dash for it. Arthur breathes.

And breathes again. He has an umbrella. He walks past the spiral staircase and the doors to the music rooms and towards Gilbert. Gilbert doesn’t quite start when Arthur approaches him — but his self-control is clearly fraying at the edges.

Arthur nods down at his own umbrella, then at Gilbert.

‘You want a ride?’

Gilbert’s sudden, surprised laugh shatters the damp air. It’s gone so quickly Arthur isn’t sure if he’s imagined it, and then Gilbert’s expression is studiedly neutral, his features fine and cold. He’s really very intimidating. ‘Sure.’

They walk towards the side gate.

Gilbert’s hair drips rainwater down the sides of his face. It’s shorter than Arthur remembers. Even — this makes Arthur almost smile — fashionably cut. Antonio never used to comb his hair. ‘So.’

Sheltered under the intimate circle of Arthur’s umbrella, they pause just outside the main entrance to Gilbert’s dorm. An elderly security guard dozes in his booth. Gilbert’s gazing steadily ahead — at the high, soft-lit arches and foyer he’s seen a thousand times — with an unreadable look on his face, hands deep in the pockets of that threadbare hoodie.

Arthur’s pulse is shuddering in him. Blindly he echoes, careful to keep his tone guarded: ‘So.’

Gilbert’s eyes linger on Arthur’s face. His gaze skitters away; he looks so young. Arthur hasn’t seen Gilbert in ages, and he permits himself a few sorry instants to study what he’s missed. The slightly cruel look of the eyes set rather too close together, the sweet mouth. Gilbert’s a fool to think of himself as unattractive. He _is_ lovely: his easy physicality, his battlefield voice.

Arthur waits a forever second, letting air fill his lungs. The smell of rain hangs heavy between them. He’s been through worse. He’s done worse. He can do this, now.

‘Do you want to talk?’

‘YES,’ says Gilbert with a rush of breath so immediate it seems to dizzy him. There’s a flash of relief, or hope, that crosses his face, and then he’s cool and wary again. Still, he phrases this as a question: ‘Come over after class tomorrow?’ His voice cracks on the last syllable.

‘Right. Yes.’

‘I end at twelve-thirty.’

‘I have lectures until two.’

Gilbert shrugs. ‘Doesn’t matter. Just drop by then. I’ll be in my room.’

* * *

Arthur: a crisp knocking on the door, icy-eyed and glorious when Gilbert goes to open it. Waiting. That dusty, old look Gilbert remembers lingering always on his face, all jaded courtesy. Matthew’s motto might be “do no harm, take no shit”, and Alfred Jones soars through life on gilded roller skates, but Arthur’s thought process is very simple: _give nothing. Expect nothing_.

Gilbert closes the door behind Arthur. Neither of them have turned eighteen yet — Gilbert’s birthday is in mid-January, Arthur’s in April. He doesn’t feel much older. He turns from locking the door (he doesn’t want any of his new-made friends barging in, not in the middle of this) to find Arthur toeing off his shoes with placid familiarity. The thin weight of his lowered eyelashes makes Gilbert’s heart ache.

Gilbert gestures at the bed. ‘Sit down,’ he offers, and Arthur settles on the foot of the bed and looks up at Gilbert, waiting for him to speak.

Gilbert has no idea how to navigate the new status quo. Arthur — ex-debater, current campus royalty, magnificent boy — is not known for letting other people set the tone. Gilbert stands, and allows himself to be scrutinised, and then sits down beside Arthur. He rocks a little on the heels of his hands.

‘What’s up?’

Arthur glances at Gilbert’s laptop on the desk, at the browser window open on the screen, and his lips twitch. He hums noncommittally.

Gilbert is losing patience. If there’s one thing he’s learned from last year it’s that he doesn’t _need_ to put up with shit. He doesn’t have time for that. ‘How are you? Don’t give me that “I’m fine” bullshit, a real answer.’

‘Better,’ Arthur says. The words come out a little reluctantly, but they’re there. ‘I’m. I’m still… I’m seeing Dr Vargas regularly. It’s embarrassing.’

‘It’s really not.’

Arthur inhales; clearly he isn’t used to Gilbert being short with him. Fair enough. Gilbert’s not used to it either. Arthur’s lips press together. ‘And you?’

He shrugs. ‘I’m on medication.’

‘What’s your diagnosis?’

‘ADHD and dysthymia.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Chronic depression.’

‘Ah,’ says Arthur. He shifts backwards and leans against the headboard, unconsciously putting himself at ease. Gilbert watches him consider this new information, turn it slowly over in his head and then move on to the next issue. ‘I’m sorry I broke up with you.’

‘Yeah, _I’m_ sorry too.’

Arthur flinches. ‘I really am.’

Gilbert swallows; he didn’t mean to make Arthur feel bad. He’s very aware of the differences in Arthur’s demeanour when they’re alone together, this softer version that Gilbert gets: quieter, more thoughtful. He doesn’t want to lose that. He’s remembering the scattered last days of their previous term, some field trip and Arthur and Elizabeta in the back of the bus, singing along to one of the tracks on Arlovskaya’s phone, and Gilbert was a little bitter. He isn’t, now. He couldn’t hold a grudge against Arthur if he tried. He’s always been somewhere in the middle of the spectrum — between Francis, who nurses grievances longer than anyone else, and Antonio slyly uncaring — and now that his two closest friends are gone, the differences aren’t so stark. The differences don’t matter. He’s his own person.

‘Go on. Say what you have to say.’

Arthur mentally runs through all the words pressing into the roof of Gilbert’s mouth and settles on the easiest option first. Is Arthur usually so transparent? Gilbert doesn’t think so — Arthur likes to be gracious, likes to be nice just to guarantee that other people’ll be nice to him in return, and in private he’s abrasive in his bristling defenses. Gilbert doesn’t dare to think that he’s special to Arthur. He’d like to.

‘I didn’t shag Antonio once after we started sleeping together,’ Arthur tells him matter-of-factly. ‘I know I have… I have a reputation, but I don’t cheat, you know. I wouldn’t.’

‘I know.’

‘You thought I did.’

Gilbert says wearily, ‘Yeah.’

‘But in the interests of being fair,’ and ah, _there’s_ the Arthur he knows, and Gilbert smiles despite himself, ‘you didn’t exactly act like you wanted to be in a relationship.’

‘Yeah,’ Gilbert says again, pained. He looks down at his feet, then back up at Arthur. Arthur’s watching him uncertainly through his thick gold eyelashes. ‘For what it’s worth, Arthur, I’m really sorry about that.’

‘You never trusted me,’ Arthur says. ‘I didn’t say anything at the time but you kept making all these casual comments about not wanting to date me, and how I’d be a bad boyfriend, and it did hurt, you see.’

‘I know.’ He closes his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I was taking it out on you. I feel really bad about that all the time, I — fuck, that sounded so selfish, I didn’t mean it like that —’

‘It’s fine.’

‘You know I say worse things about myself all the time, right? I just… I don’t know, I couldn’t figure out what you could possibly see in me. I won’t put you down like that again, promise.’

Arthur gives him a slow nod, cautious; he can tell that Gilbert’s not done speaking.

‘It’s just.’ He pauses. ‘You do this thing where you kiss me, or fuck me or generally act all lovey-dovey just because something’s upset you and you want to make yourself feel better. I mean, I’m not saying it’s wrong to do that, it’s okay to look for comfort, but it doesn’t make a guy feel good about himself.’

‘You’re being a lot more diplomatic than you need to be.’ Arthur grins that familiar grin, wry and self-mocking. ‘You can tell me I’m a twat. Really, I can take it.’

‘I can’t stay mad at you,’ Gilbert tells Arthur frankly.

Arthur shifts on the bed. He’s upset: Gilbert can tell from the way his jaw tenses. ‘I’m sorry I treated you badly.’

‘That’s a bit strong —’

‘No, it’s not. I didn’t intend to do it, if you’ll believe me. I don’t… I didn’t understand, at the time. I don’t need as much affirmation as you do, I think — Christ, that came out awful —’

Gilbert raises and lowers one shoulder fractionally. ‘Relax. You’re just stating a fact.’

‘You’re right to be angry.’ Arthur sighs. He takes to apologies with surprising grace, given all the pride that’s fuelled him for seventeen years. ‘Look, I understand what you’re saying. You mean you felt like I was using you. I didn’t make you feel special and you _are_ special —’

‘Oh my god.’ Gilbert lets his head fall back and smack against the headboard. ‘I can’t believe this. I’m about to have a conversation about feelings.’

‘You’ll get used to it,’ says Arthur unsympathetically.

‘Okay, you don’t need to do this —’

‘Yes, you fucking idiot, I’m going to tell you nice things about yourself and you’re going to listen.’ Gilbert takes one look at Arthur’s face and shuts up. ‘Right. First and foremost, you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.’

‘What the fuck?’ Gilbert says, and collapses into laughter.

‘Ridiculous,’ Arthur murmurs, sounding fond. ‘Absolutely disgraceful. All right, I’m not drunk enough for this and neither are you, so I’ll keep it short and relatively painless. You’re incredibly perceptive about other people and… and _good_ at what you do, and caring, I suppose. I like how you call me out on my bullshit. Everything you say can be taken at face value — you say precisely what you mean, there’s no talking in circles or, or tactful omissions or hidden meanings that I have to pick out — and you have no idea how relaxing that is. I’d. I’d trust you with my life, you know. And I’d want to be with you, if you’ll have me back.’

Gilbert is not saying anything. He’s not really capable of forming words at the moment.

Arthur hesitates. ‘When you said you didn’t feel much. Last time. Is that, well, is that still true?’

‘No!’ Gilbert sits up sharply. ‘It wasn’t… I mean, it was true at the time, but I was in a pretty bad place at the time, it was temporary. Look, I’m not good with words. You’re the one who’s good at words. You have to be good enough for both of us, okay? But I, I think you’re great. I like you. A lot. You’ve probably figured that out —’ Arthur’s knowing smile starts out slowly but it’s growing, and then they’re both laughing. ‘That’s never going to change.’

‘Very brave,’ Arthur notes.

‘No, really.’

‘Really?’

‘I’m sure.’

Arthur still looks sceptical, but it’s fading fast. He wasn’t lying when he said he’d believe anything Gilbert told him.

Gilbert leans back against the headboard beside Arthur, the blankets warm and steady underneath them. He moves a little closer. ‘It’s just that there’ll be good days and bad days.’

‘Is this a good day?’

‘Pretty much, since you’re here.’

Arthur’s silence hangs. He looks as though he can’t quite believe his luck. Gilbert, obviously, is feeling kind of overwhelmed.

‘Well then,’ Arthur says.

‘So,’ Gilbert says. ‘Arthur Kirkland, since you want to kiss me so bad you should just do it.’

Arthur doesn’t need to be told twice. He throws himself forward; Gilbert catches him, pulls him in hot and close. Arthur’s mouth tastes like coming home. He’s breathing out, soft and low and needy along Gilbert’s cheek, resting his forehead against Gilbert’s.

Gilbert draws back and sucks in a gasping breath. It’s all so much to take in: the dorm rich and quiet around them, red-brown floorboards warming the soles of his feet; the cool emptiness of the corridor outside, Arthur’s lips near his ear. He’s holding on to the front of Arthur’s shirt. He’s missed this.

‘I missed you.’

‘I know. I know.’ Arthur clutches harshly at Gilbert’s shoulders for a moment, then cups Gilbert’s face in his hands. ‘Go out with me?’

‘Okay.’ Gilbert strokes the back of Arthur’s head, fingers tangling in dusty hair. He can hardly breathe through all the sunlight. He can’t believe himself. ‘You’re being so nice to me.’ And that sounds wrong, so he corrects himself: ‘You _are_ nice to me. Christ. You are so nice. How…?’

‘Fuck off,’ says Arthur, laughing. Gilbert bumps noses with him.

* * *

_WhatsApp: “HOE THE DOOR”, 8:56pm_

**Lovino Vargas:** ??? no i’m not

 **Lovino Vargas:** i’m bi

 **Carlos Machado:** what

 **Alfred F. Jones:** whaaaat

 **Lovino Vargas:** dating a girl doesn’t make me straight

 **Im Yong Soo:** HUH

 **Alfred F. Jones:** THAT’S NEWS TO ME

 **Lin Yi Ling:** We all thought you were straight???

 **Lovino Vargas:** WHAT THE FUCK

 **Lovino Vargas:** I’VE NEVER BEEN SO INSULTED IN MY LIFE

 **Emil Steilsson:** chill

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** chill

 **Lovino Vargas:** i was having such a good day and then you accuse ME of being a HETEROSEXUAL

 **Natalya Arlovskaya:** chill

 **Arthur Kirkland:** chill

 **Alfred F. Jones:** chill

 **Vash Zwingli:** chill

 **Feliks Łukasiewicz:** I FEEL U BABE

 **Lovino Vargas:** call me babe one more time and i’ll cut you

 **Elizabeta Héderváry:** Oh Lovino bby  <3

 **Lovino Vargas:** yes mamma

 **Feliks Łukasiewicz:** WTF

 **Honda Kiku:** Can you maybe chill?

 **Lovino Vargas:** how bout maybe YOU chill????

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** calm the fuck down vargas nobody cares

* * *

_WhatsApp, 8:57pm_

**You:** vargas isnt straight?????

 **You:** vargas was never straight????????

 **You:** this changes everything

 **Arthur:** Apparently yes!

 **Arthur:** He just wasn’t interested in Antonio that’s all

 **You:** youre laughing so hard rn arent you

 **Arthur:** :D

 **Arthur:** I might be

 **You:** i love u

* * *

_WhatsApp: “HOE THE DOOR”, 8:58pm_

**Vash Zwingli:** ^

 **Vash Zwingli:** pls stop spamming the class chat

 **Feliks Łukasiewicz:** Literally everyone in our class is gay I s2g

 **Alfred F. Jones:** i’m straight!!

 **Natalya Arlovskaya:** what you are is Extra TM 

**Gilbert Beilschmidt:** FUCK

 **Alfred F. Jones:** why must u wound me

 **Lovino Vargas:** DRAG HIM

 **Alfred F. Jones:** i have done nothing wrong in my life ever

 **Sadik Adnan:** lmfao bitch where

 **Arthur Kirkland:** That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard

 **Lovino Vargas:** BITCH I HAVE THE RECEIPTS RIGHT HERE

 **Carlos Machado:** wow why u always fuckin lyin

 **Alfred F. Jones:** NOT YOU TOO ARTHUR

 **Lin Yi Ling:** Omg are we roasting alfred now I wanna join

 **Lovino Vargas:** ok this has been enough embarrassment to last me the whole year

 **Lovino Vargas:** mother mary grant my queer ass the grace to deal with these losers

 **Lovino Vargas:** actually………nah i’m out

 **Lovino Vargas:** @jones thanks for taking the heat off me when i just came out to everyone i can always count on you to be a BITCH ASS ATTENTION SEEKER

 **Alfred F. Jones:** GUYS

 **Sadik Adnan:** RIP IN PIECES ALFRED F JONES

 **Elizabeta Héderváry:** IT’S NOT A BIG DEAL LOVINO CALM DOWN

 **Vash Zwingli:** none of you have any chill smh

 **Elizabeta Héderváry:** WE LOVE YOU

 **Arthur Kirkland:** Idk I certainly don’t

 **Vash Zwingli:** ^

 **Emil Steilsson:** ^

 **Eduard von Bock:** ^

 **Natalya Arlovskaya:** ^

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** ^

 **Raivis Galante:** ^

 **Toris Laurinaitis:** WHAT IS GOING ON

 **Lovino Vargas:** arrivederci motherfuckers

_Lovino Vargas left_

**Gilbert Beilschmidt:** are you kidding me

 **Gilbert Beilschmidt:** add him back

* * *

_WhatsApp, 9:00pm_

**You:** so

 **You:** are we ever gonna tell antonio

 **Arthur:** Never

 **You:** never

* * *

_WhatsApp, 9:00pm_

_Elizabeta Héderváry added Lovino Vargas_

**Alfred F. Jones:** ciao

 **Lovino Vargas:** fuck off

* * *

Gilbert’s not going to lie: he loves this. It’s well into the semester and he and Arthur have settled into a routine — they’re pretty sure the teachers know they’re dating, now, since Gilbert’s form teacher called him while he was napping once and Arthur answered the phone. Antonio and Francis are back for their university term break (finally!) and they’ve planned a meetup in town. Those two were practically his whole world for so long that it’s like a gust of fresh sweet air to see them again. Gilbert loves this. He likes waiting just outside the gate every morning — waiting for Arthur — so they can walk into school together, tripping and bumping shoulders all up the long red-brick slope, blending into the throng of people smoking near the quad in the early morning coolness, laughing at each other’s stupid jokes. He teaches Arthur the meaning of some phrases in German. Arthur never uses them, too shy about his pronunciation to really try out a new language, but his eyes crinkle in understanding.

Arthur is standing in front of the trophy case outside one of the lecture halls when Gilbert finds him. He doesn’t even notice Gilbert coming up behind him, even though Gilbert’s reflection is clearly visible in the glass front; his expression is meditative. He’s wrinkling his nose slightly. Gilbert will never get over his awe at being able to see Arthur like this: quiet as a rabbit, rubbing his eyes at seven in the evening when there’s a sore, fucked-out burn to their muscles and looking absently at Gilbert like _you make me so happy_.

Arthur is hugging his homework file to his chest. He’s frowning down at last year’s debate championship award certificate — remembering all the times he was team captain, probably — and Gilbert hisses into Arthur’s ear, in his best impression of a Bond villain voice, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

Arthur jumps, scattering papers everywhere. Gilbert says: ‘Shit…!’ and scrambles to gather them up in alarm. As he hands over the last French worksheet, thick with Arthur’s incomprehensible handwriting, he notices Arthur is looking at him with amusement in his eyes. ‘What?’

Arthur touches Gilbert’s hair briefly. ‘You’re adorable.’

‘I’m cool and intimidating. Let’s go, we said we’d meet them at two and it’s one-fifty now.’

Arthur gives Gilbert a flat look. ‘They’ll both be late. You know them.’

Arthur’s right, of course. Antonio is comfortable and completely unchanged, as Gilbert knew he’d be; he bumps fists with Gilbert and lights a cigarette and grins, his pleasure enough to light up the day. Ten minutes later Francis stalks into the café, fashionably late, slender and graceful in equally fashionable jeans and a dark shirt. His hair’s longer now and tied back.

‘I’m so offended,’ Gilbert exclaims, looking him up and down. ‘Francis, what the fuck? You _upgraded_. I didn’t think that was even possible.’

‘And _bonsoir_ to you too,’ replies Francis blandly. One or two strands have slipped from his ponytail and he tucks them behind his ear. Settling into the seat beside Antonio, he nods at Arthur and steals one of Antonio’s fries. ‘How have you been?’

‘We thought we were safe, you know, after you graduated. We thought we were free at last. All through your senior year, the sexual frustration from the whole of St. Cat’s was enough to power a small windmill. Arthur, back me up.’

Arthur sniffs. ‘I’m immune.’

‘He’s not immune,’ Antonio says over his shoulder.

‘So are you with anyone yet?’

Francis raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t look much more well-rested than usual, although that’s probably just the long train ride. And it’d be pretty out of character for Francis to _not_ look exhausted and yet somehow brightly alive. Francis thrives on coffee and suffering. He’s been thoroughly enjoying himself, Gilbert can tell.

‘Do you honestly think I wouldn’t have told you immediately if I’d found someone? No. I’m not.’

Antonio nods sagely. ‘Everyone else at his university is too intimidated by how pretty he is.’

‘I don’t see why they should be. Evidently, I am beautiful and perfect —’ Gilbert wads up his napkin and throws it at Francis’ face. Francis tries to catch it and fails. ‘— but I think everybody I see is also beautiful and perfect.’

‘How’re you doing, Antonio?’ Gilbert asks.

It’s meaningless to ask this, of course, but he does it anyway. Antonio shrugs. Gilbert knows the little details of Antonio’s university life (they’re still texting, what kind of friend do you think he is?): pictures of the stray cats Antonio sees on his way to lectures and the flat he shares with three roommates. Somehow, Antonio’s individual sleeping space manages to be even messier than his old dorm room at St. Cat’s. This is utterly predictable. Antonio trails chaos behind him like a snapped leash, a comet wavering cheerily through the fabric of near-adulthood.

‘I’m okay.’ Antonio’s general summaries tend to be pointless. Gilbert knows he’s okay. Antonio’s always okay. That doesn’t mean Gilbert won’t ask. ‘Classes are boring.’

‘When’s the last time you skipped class?’ Arthur inquires wisely.

Antonio’s sudden smile is slower than usual, but more genuine — a kind of relief at being so _known_. ‘Too many times to count, really, I couldn’t tell you. I sleep in most days. It’s great! My bed faces the window, so I don’t bother setting an alarm. The sun wakes me up.’

‘The what?’

‘That yellow thing in the sky? It’s the sun, Arthur. Do you know what a sun is? A ball of flaming gas that —’

‘Oh, sod off,’ says Arthur with great affection.

* * *

Gilbert finds Arthur asleep in his bed when he comes out of the shower. Arthur wakes with a murmur, warm and ruffled, to the dip of Gilbert’s knee on the mattress.

‘ _Arthur_ ,’ Gilbert says, in unmistakable delight. He curves his palm over Arthur’s jaw for an instant — a curious, absent-minded caress, thumb grazing Arthur’s cheekbone — and then nudges Arthur aside and crawls under the covers. ‘Move over.’

Gilbert, they’ve found, secretly enjoys being the little spoon. He shivers at Arthur’s breath on his neck. Arthur kicks the blankets aside and tucks himself snugly against Gilbert, cosy as a nest, feeling Gilbert’s ribs move with his sigh.

‘I like this.’ Gilbert presses his cheek to Arthur’s, sleep-hot and flushed from the bedclothes.

‘Like what?’

‘Coming home to you.’

‘Sap.’ He can feel Gilbert’s smile. ‘You smell nice.’

‘I just showered.’

‘Where’d you come from?’

‘Hmm? Met up with Lovino for gelato.’ Gilbert’s hair is splayed out on the pillow and the air skates over his sharp cheekbones. He looks lazy and arrogant, and exactly as he should look: treated well, well-fed, well-shagged. Arthur buries his face in Gilbert’s shoulder and Gilbert’s clean, rich scent from the shower, the damp fine hairs tickling at the base of his skull. The sun slants freshly through the windows. Arthur dozes.

He can _hear_ Gilbert smirking into the pillow as he wakes up.

‘Really, I can’t help it,’ Arthur says, shifting uncomfortably. He’s hard; he edges his hips as far away from Gilbert as possible, and Gilbert promptly follows that up by downright grinding against him. He’s thrown an arm over Gilbert’s waist in his sleep. It’s getting dark outside, and Arthur’s skin is bright with the heat: their bodies pressed the length of each other, hands looping easily.

‘You really know how to flatter a guy, don’t you?’ Gilbert’s eyes are alight; he turns over to face Arthur, solid and sharp. He licks his lips. ‘You make me so proud of myself.’

‘As you should be,’ Arthur tells him, voice dry, and slips one hand under Gilbert’s shirt. He isn’t sure what released in him this fragile, possessive tenderness: this capacity to love and be loved and be _kind_ , a potential foreign to himself, like a dam broken. Alfred is amused, Kiku quietly tolerant; he can see Kiku studying him sometimes with an oddly gentle expression. They are becoming an entity in their year, a unit sleek with careful solidarity. Arlovskaya and Héderváry are still going strong, and, of course, so are Vargas and Laura — that fairytale prom-bound couple — and now they’re joined by Arthur and Gilbert, seniors paired like atoms. Gilbert and Lovino Vargas have somehow become friends. Another realignment. Gilbert’s social status, Arthur’s aware, is slightly higher than Arthur’s. Arthur doesn’t mind. It makes him happy to see Gilbert so happy.

He doesn’t do much — only skims a palm experimentally over the planes of Gilbert’s chest, thumbnail tracing the trail of coarse hair that dips beneath his waistband. Still, Gilbert sucks in his breath.

‘Shall I go on?’

‘Yeah.’

It’s uncomplicated and comforting: the luxury of tasting the hollow of Gilbert’s throat, seeking out their slow friction, the drowsy pleasure of rocking against each other. Arthur straddles him and kisses him till he himself feels swollen and too hot, knees bracketing Gilbert’s hips.

‘What do you want?’

‘Hmm?’

Gilbert’s breathing is deep and steady. Arthur presses his lips to the corner of Gilbert’s jaw, then to the juncture of neck and shoulder where the skin is tender and soft, feeling Gilbert arch his back and buck up into their full, languid rhythm. He’s conscious of the slide of his cock against Gilbert’s, leisurely and silken and decadent. Gilbert wraps his long, lean legs around Arthur’s waist, which is nice.

‘I said, what do you want?’

Gilbert considers the question and then reaches coolly into his bedside drawer and produces a condom and lube.

‘ _When did you get those_ ,’ says Arthur. ‘I’ve ruined you.’

‘You have not.’ Gilbert, unusually for a seventeen-year-old, is not self-conscious about his body; he gets his clothes off matter-of-factly. Arthur keeps his own shirt on because he likes it that way, and Gilbert doesn’t seem to mind — he takes Arthur as he is, takes Arthur by the back of the neck and pulls Arthur’s face down to his own, Arthur who is imperfect and fleshy or thin in all the wrong places. Arthur’s in his lap, one hand gripping the headboard, and Gilbert’s eyes are half-lidded and thoughtful. With a flick of his head he directs Arthur: ‘On the desk. There.’

Arthur sits on the edge of the desk with his pulse on his tongue. He thinks briefly that he might let Gilbert swallow him whole, and Gilbert’s mouth is furled in concentration as his long fingers push inside Arthur, spreading him carefully.

‘Do you think about me when you get off?’

‘What?’ Gilbert looks up at Arthur and grins crookedly, curls his fingers just so, to make Arthur hiss. ‘No, I think about Roderich Edelstein. Christ! Don’t move! Come back, come here, you asshole.’

Arthur doesn’t startle when Gilbert drops to his knees. He hooks his legs over Gilbert’s shoulders. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m sucking your dick so you’ll tell me you love me. Raise your hips.’

‘Really, I don’t think…’ Arthur mutters, hands in Gilbert’s hair. ‘Put those fingers back where they came from,’ and as Gilbert abruptly takes the tip of Arthur’s cock into his mouth, ‘ _please_.’

Gilbert pulls back, his eyes soft and wide. ‘Holy shit.’

‘Why do you always act surprised when I’m polite to you?’ demands Arthur in deep frustration. He tugs gently on the ends of Gilbert’s hair. ‘Does it go against your impressions of what is _sexy_? Should I start speaking French? I can do it in bed quite well, you know. I’ve half a mind to speak it with a German accent. Right now. Right here. I’ve been wanting to try.’

‘Arthur, fuck, I love you, but your accents are fucking terrible,’ Gilbert says. ‘You do them terribly on purpose, don’t you? You’re going to kill me some day. Put your dick back in my mouth and maybe you’ll shut up.’ He closes his eyes and lets his mouth fall open expectantly.

‘For the love of god, don’t do that. You look like a baby bird waiting to be fed.’

Gilbert’s eyes snap open. ‘That,’ he says, ‘is the worst line I have _ever heard_. Fuck. Congratulations. I think you just killed my boner.’

‘What a disaster. Come back, Gilbert Junior, you’re my favourite part of him.’

‘Did you just _name my dick_?’ says Gilbert. ‘Did you just pass up the chance to name it Gilbird? I’m not mad, just disappointed.’

Arthur isn’t much of a talker in bed but he makes an effort for Gilbert: _yes, please, like that._ Gilbert is honestly not very good at this; he uses his hand for what he can’t take into his mouth, sloppy and eager, and Arthur is better at giving blowjobs than receiving them anyway. When his cock hits the back of Gilbert’s throat Arthur says, ‘Oh god _fuck_ ,’ and then, ‘Are you all right, please don’t choke, throwing up on somebody really kills the mood, you see.’ Gilbert pulls off and rests his forehead on Arthur’s knee and starts to laugh hoarsely, and Arthur just strokes his hair and lies back on the desk for a bit.

A few damp minutes later he adds, ‘This isn’t really necessary. I’d tell you freely if you only asked — there are things about you I’m rather damned fond of.’

Gilbert lifts his head. He’s flushed and his hair, which is getting long again and needs cutting, sticks to his temples. He rasps, ‘My moral values?’

‘Yes! All three of them,’ says Arthur. He’s wet and aching and empty, and four of Gilbert’s fingers, up to the knuckles, are enough to make him gasp. ‘What are you thinking about?’

‘What to have for dinner.’ Gilbert licks a generous stripe up Arthur’s cock. ‘Mmm, _bratwurst_.’

‘I’m going to strangle y — watch your teeth!’

Gilbert comes willingly when Arthur drags him up for a kiss; he cups Arthur’s jaw as if it’s second nature to him. He misses Arthur’s lips the first time, lets out an amused sort of sniff, kisses Arthur’s forehead twice. The head of his cock drags wetly across Arthur’s stomach as he moves, and Arthur’s skin prickles.

He pushes forward, folding into Gilbert, tasting the salt of Gilbert’s sweat and the lingering fragrance of shampoo.

‘Your dirty talk,’ Gilbert murmurs, ‘needs practice.’

‘No problem,’ says Arthur, breathing in, curling in. Gilbert’s pulse skips against his own. ‘Put the rubber on and fuck me.’

‘What, bored already?’

‘I’m very high-maintenance,’ Arthur explains mournfully. ‘I don’t know how we get anything done, mind, when we try to shag — you’re always laughing so hard.’

‘ _You_ don’t know? Are you kidding me? I do all the _work_ —’ He pushes forward, making soft broken sounds as if he can’t quite help himself. Arthur, experienced and giddy with it, stretches and wraps himself around Gilbert: around the sweet, sharp burn of Gilbert’s cock sliding into him, the ache spreading through his limbs. ‘— _I_ have the condoms, I clean us up after —’

‘I am perfectly fine going to sleep with your sodding bodily fluids all over me, I’ll have you know. It’s you who can’t stand it —’

‘I stick my fingers up your arse —’

‘Yes, that’s a great chore for you, I’m sure,’ Arthur tells him, and kisses Gilbert’s nose. Gilbert snorts softly. ‘Come on, now. You talk too much.’

The pale curve of Gilbert’s back like a violin bow tightly strung, the dusk humming outside the window, is a wonder and a whole world. Gilbert’s features are softened by the dim light, his mouth a perfect streak of blue, as he considers Arthur with the cool directness of a general.

‘You can turn me over. I’m very flexible,’ offers Arthur.

Gilbert presses deeper instead, nudging Arthur’s knees further apart. ‘And so romantic. Tell me more.’

Arthur smiles — stretched and sore, full enough to brim over. ‘Your prick is very dear to me.’

‘What about the rest of me?’

‘Yes,’ says Arthur patiently. He’ll repeat himself for as long as Gilbert wants him to. ‘Yes, all of you.’

He fucks Arthur thoroughly, with long, sweet strokes. Arthur digs his heels into Gilbert’s back, gratified and being as gratifying as he can: _pleasepleaseplease_. Gilbert tells him, ‘You’re so good,’ which makes no sense at all.

Arthur starts leaving his things in Gilbert’s room. He doesn’t do it on purpose, really; it’s just that Arthur is not tacky enough to spend the night in Mr Beilschmidt’s living quarters right after fucking his brother. He’s made several skilful getaways mere minutes before Ludwig walks through the door, because Ludwig, thank god, sticks to a schedule. So it’s only natural that Arthur loses pens and socks and possibly _an entire set of school uniform_ , quietly accumulated, which Gilbert probably ends up wearing by accident — they’re practically the same size. They’re in and out of each other’s clothes all the time, out of pure convenience.

They think it doesn’t matter. Gilbert’s had an extra shirt for weeks and Arthur’s tie is draped over the swivel chair where Gilbert does his homework in the evenings, chewing on the end of his pencil, and by this time neither of them can tell the difference. But as it turns out Arthur sewed his name into the waistband of his uniform trousers last year, since Arthur Kirkland is the opposite of cool. Arthur is not prepared at all when Gilbert’s brother comes into class wearing a hideous knitted sweater and carrying a mug that says WORLD’S BEST DOG DAD and hands the (ironed and neatly folded) pair of trousers to him.

‘Excuse me, I think this is yours,’ says Ludwig.

‘Ah. Right. Thank you sir,’ says Arthur. He looks Ludwig in the eye, and Ludwig looks back, and that is all.

‘Hey,’ Gilbert says the next day, ‘please make friends with Ludwig, he’s kind of important to me.’

‘All in good time,’ replies Arthur through his teeth.

It isn’t perfect, of course. There are good days and not-so-good days and not-so-good _weeks_. There are days when Arthur can barely swallow through all the tension festering in his throat, and days when they fight, and days when Gilbert slips out of lectures halfway through and tells Arthur to take notes for him. But Arthur likes to think that those are getting a little easier to endure.

* * *

_WhatsApp, 00:33am_

**You:** yeah ok

 **You:** tell me youre sleeping soon

 **Arthur:** I am

 **You:** im so sleepy

 **Arthur:** In 15 min

 **You:** good

 **Arthur:** That’s good, it means the meds are working

 **Arthur:** Sleep!!

 **You:** good night

 **You:** love u

 **Arthur:** Thank you

 **You:** WOW

 **Arthur:** HAHA I’m kidding

 **You:** i know no takebacks

 **Arthur:** Love you too

 **You:** <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that’s a wrap!! thank you so so much to everybody who read this far. these two are MY BOYS and it’s honestly Such A Delight to know there are other people out there caring about this rarepair. anyway ymmv but my headcanon is they go through a couple of rough patches in uni because long-distance relationships are hard (but they make it through and eventually move in together and are vvv happy)


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